


These Hands, Never Clean

by wickedthoughts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Castration, Codependency, Dry Humping, Eating Disorders, First Blade, Guilty Dean, Hurt Sam Winchester, Internal Monologue, M/M, Mark of Cain, Medical Procedures, Mutilation, Possessed Dean, Rape Aftermath, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Victim Blaming, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedthoughts/pseuds/wickedthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's possession by the First Blade leads to horrific consequences for Sam and painful soul-searching for both brothers. Why are Sam and Dean Winchester the way they are?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of Chapter 1 is also posted [here](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/84092.html?thread=31527804#t31527804)
> 
> Title is a bastardization of Macbeth Act 5, Sc. 1, Ln. 21
> 
> This is really, really dark. Please heed the warnings.
> 
> ____________________________

Sam steps out of the shower, a white towel hastily wrapped around his waist, to find Dean waiting for him. Sam opens his mouth to question his older brother, but the words die on his lips as he sees the brand on Dean’s forearm burning bright. Dean’s bare-chested, his muscles tensed and waiting. He has the First Blade gripped tightly in his right hand. There is a look of animalistic rage on his face.  
  
“Dean, no!”  
  
Sam raises his hands in a placating gesture. He walks slowly towards his brother with his palms outstretched.  
  
“Dean. Dean, it’s me. Put it down.”  
  
As Sam moves, the towel slips from his hips and Sam is exposed to Dean. The gleam in Dean’s eyes turns hungry. Before Sam even has a chance to react, Dean charges forward and slams into his brother’s chest. The impact knocks the breath out of Sam’s lungs and sends him tumbling. He lands on his back. Hard. Snarling, Dean follows his brother down. He crouches over Sam’s abdomen. Sam finds himself unable to speak. He chokes in fear as Dean reaches between his legs and grasps the entirety of Sam’s soft manhood in his left hand.  
  
“Dean! What- ?”  
  
Sam’s voice returns in his surprise at Dean’s violation. His question is cut off in a gasp of pain when Dean pulls his hand back, stretching Sam’s cock and balls as far as they will go. The crude donkey-bone blade sweeps through the air.  
  
"No, don't! Dean, stop!"  
  
The jawbone smashes through the root of Sam’s vulnerable flesh, taking everything. Sam gapes in shock at the bloody nubs between his thighs. And then the pain hits him. Sam throws back his head and roars in agony. His neck muscles spasm and he clenches his fists against the pain coursing from between his legs. His mind is still in shock. He can’t believe what Dean has just done to him.  
  
Dean stands, holding Sam’s severed flesh aloft. He drops it to the tiled floor and, checking to see that Sam is watching, grinds Sam’s cock and balls into the tile. Tears fill Sam’s eyes as he watches his once proud manhood become a pink smear on the bathroom floor under his brother's heel. Sam’s lost a lot of blood and he feels weakness spreading through his body. He convulses in terror as Dean crouches back down between his legs. Dean’s grin is a savage leer. He undoes his jeans and pulls his hard cock out through his fly. Sam moans in horror.  
  
Dean lifts Sam’s legs up, draping them over his shoulders. Dean looks Sam dead in the eyes and licks his lips right before he buries himself to the hilt inside of Sam. Sam feels like he’s being split in two. The burn in his ass as Dean humps him with wild abandon is second only to the pain in his mutilated groin as Dean rubs against it. He screams himself hoarse. For the first time Sam sees the demon that Dean almost became in Hell. Dean finishes quickly, pounding into Sam until he comes with a deep-throated yell of pleasure. It hurts just as badly when Dean pulls out as when he first thrust inside. Sam is crying; the pain, horror, and betrayal too much for him to contain. His brother has destroyed him. Body and soul.  
  
Dean looks up at Sam’s weeping face. Slowly, the Mark of Cain’s glow fades. The fury leaves Dean’s eyes and the First Blade clatters to the floor. Dean shakes his head and Sam lets out a high-pitched whimper. His brother sees what’s been done to Sam. He sees the bloody ruin of Sam’s manhood; the blood and come dripping from his torn hole. Fierce emotions dance across Dean’s face. Shock. Concern. Anger. And finally, dawning horror as he looks down at the blood on his hands and his chest, at his open jeans and the blood on his cock, and he realizes that _he_ did this to his little brother.  
  
Dean throws himself away from Sam as an anguished cry of denial and self-loathing rips from his throat. He backs into a corner. Sinking to the floor, Dean buries his head in his hands and sobs.

* * *

Several minutes pass before Dean finishes processing what he’s done to Sam. He doesn’t remember attacking his brother, but he knows that he did it. It had to have been him. He disgustedly tucks himself back into his jeans. Instinct suddenly takes over as he becomes aware of how much blood Sam has lost and how his mutilated brother will bleed to death if he doesn’t do something quickly. Dean’s heaving shoulders straighten and his tears dry as he springs to his feet.

Sam’s tears have dried as well, he’s dazed from blood loss and he babbles and shakes on the tiled floor. He finds the strength to cry out when he sees Dean approaching him again. Dean pulls some clean towels from the rack and uses one to put pressure between Sam’s legs as Sam squirms futilely against what he perceives as another assault.

“Sam. Sam! It’s okay, it’s me.”

Dean’s voice only makes Sam struggle harder and Dean’s heart breaks. Sam will never trust Dean again. And how could he?

“Sam, it wasn’t me. I swear to god, it wasn’t me. It was the Mark- the Blade- I don’t know, but it wasn’t me!”

Dean is trying to convince himself as much as his brother. His voice pleads for Sam to understand, to acknowledge his innocence in Sam’s undoing. It’s selfish and it’s not the time for it, but Dean doesn’t care. He needs Sam to be able to trust him again. He needs to know if Sam can ever _love_ him again.

“Dean?” Sam croaks. Looking into his bloodshot eyes is like looking into a void of pain and despair.

“Yeah, Sam. It’s me.”

The first towel is soaked in Sam’s rust-colored blood and Dean switches it out for a fresh one. He shudders when he gets a clear look at the damage he’s wrought on Sam. What his brother’s life will be like from now on. Guilt-stricken, Dean pulls his brother’s wounded body halfway into his lap and is relieved when Sam barely resists him, although that could be as much from the shock as from his acceptance of Dean’s innocence.

“Dean?”

Sam softly repeats his brother’s name and Dean bends his head closer to Sam’s face.

“I’m here Sam. I’m here.”

“Dean, please- ” Sam coughs pitifully, his face twisting in agony.

“What is it Sam? What do you need?”

Anything. He will do, say, _give_ anything for his brother right now.

“Please, Dean. Please. Kill me.”

Dean clutches Sam tightly in dismay. The second towel is soaked through now and Dean knows he should change it, but Dean’s hands aren’t cooperating with his brain. They insist on holding his little brother close, rocking him gently like he used to when they were kids and Sammy had had a bad dream. Only this time Dean himself is the nightmare. And Sam will never wake up.

“No. Oh, Sam, no.”

He will do anything for Sam. Anything but that.

“Please- ” Sam is crying again, clinging to Dean weakly. He continues to beg, whimpered pleas for his brother to end the misery his life has unexpectedly become, until he passes out from the exhaustion.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck!”

Dean is frozen in his horror. He looks from Sam’s unconscious face to the scarred brand on his own arm. To the First Blade lying beside the spattered remains of Sam’s manhood. It  _is_  his fault. He chose to take the Mark. He is responsible for all of this. And he can never make it right.

Dean lifts Sam into his arms, barely registering his larger brother’s weight. He carries Sam to the Men of Letters’ infirmary.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean moves Sam to the bunker’s well-stocked infirmary and stabilizes him, cleaning and disinfecting and tourniquetting, giving him an impromptu blood transfusion and some morphine. Sam, thank god, doesn’t wake up for any of it. When he’s satisfied with his work Dean takes a moment to rest. He lays his head on his brother’s chest. Sam’s on his back on the simple medical cot and Dean presses his ear to Sam’s heart to reassure himself that it’s pumping. Sam’s pulse is thready, but still there, still beating. Dean closes his eyes and sighs in relief. Then he rises and gets back to work.

Dean frantically goes through his cellphone contacts to find someone who might be able to help. He tries Cas, both by phone and with prayer, but he can’t reach him. Dean isn’t even sure what’s going on with Cas right now, how his stolen angelic powers work or if he can even heal anymore. Truth be told, Dean doesn’t want Cas to see what he’s done to Sam, doesn’t want to see the rogue angel’s reaction to the Mark and to what Dean’s become. Dean gives up after twenty minutes, snapping the phone shut with a muttered “Dammit, Cas.” As he stares at the fading screen the thought  _You should have left me in Hell_ comes unbidden.

Next, Dean sends up prayers to any angel that will listen, like he’d done all those months ago when Sam was dying, even though that had turned out to be a complete disaster. No one answers, just as he expected. Divine aid is out.

After that Dean searches through the Men of Letters’ medical contacts. These contacts haven’t been updated since the 1950‘s, but Dean figures that maybe one of the numbers will give him a lead on someone who can help Sam. This time he’s not disappointed.

The name written under the slightly ominous header “Experimental Urology” is a Dr. Colburn Stone. Dean punches the listed phone number into his cellphone and anxiously waits to see if anyone picks up.

“Hello, you’ve reached the offices of Drs. Franklin & Stone, Urologic Oncology and Surgery. My name is Shirley, how can I help you?”

“Um,” Dean stammers, surprised that the number has actually worked. “It’s my brother- he needs a ura- a one of you guys.”

Dean feels like an idiot. Shirley’s voice, what one might list as a “pleasant phone voice” on a resume, goes up a few octaves.

“I’m sorry, sir, you’re going to have to be more specific. Can I make an appointment for you or your brother? Let me pull up the schedule, but I believe the soonest opening we have is with Dr. Franklin in one month. Ah, yes, would an afternoon appointment work for you?”

“What? No, he needs someone right the fuck _now_!”

“Sir, it sounds like you have an emergency. Perhaps you should hang up and call 911.”

And yes, Dean has thought of taking Sam to the hospital. The only problem is explaining to the doctors what exactly had happened. Dean can leave Sam anonymously, but he’d hate to do that to his brother. How will Sam take it if he wakes up alone in a hospital, in- in _that_ condition? And Dean knows his brother well. The less people who see Sam like this, the less people who know, the happier Sam will be.

“I can’t call 911, Shirley. Look, I found this number in the Men of Letters’ contact book, for a Dr. Colburn Stone in 1950-something, and I thought maybe-”

“You’re calling on behalf of the Men of Letters?”

Shirley drops all the false cheerfulness from her tone. Dean answers her carefully, hoping this isn’t a trap.

“Yes.”

“One moment, please.”

 An instrumental version of Jefferson Starship’s “Sara” begins to play on the line. Thankfully, someone on the other end picks up almost immediately.

“Hello, this is Dr. Stone. Are you with the Men of Letters?”

The woman’s voice is both kind and authoritative, the type of voice that suits a doctor. A thrill of hope snakes its way into Dean’s chest.

“Yes, I am. I found this number under medical contacts. I have an emergency.”

Dean hastily describes Sam’s injuries, attributing them to a demon. He tells Dr. Stone what he’s done to temporarily help Sam while he finds a real doctor. Dr. Stone listens attentively.

“And you say you’re at the bunker in Lebanon?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, we’re located in Topeka and that’s going to be a little over a three-hour drive. Let me check the time- it’s about 10:30 am right now. We’ll need about half an hour to gather supplies and make arrangements. Can I get your cell number so we can call you when we arrive? You’ll need to let us in, we don’t have the access codes anymore.”

“Uh, yeah sure. Wait, who’s ‘we’?”

“My husband, Dr. Franklin, and I will be coming up.”

Dean feels like the situation is quickly spiraling out of his control. Not that it was ever really in his control in the first place.

“Wait, I gotta ask. How the hell do you know about- about all of this?”

“My father, Dr. Colburn Stone, who I’m sure is the doctor listed in your contact book, he was an honorary Man of Letters. He used to tell me stories. I never really believed him until a few years ago, and I can tell you all about _that_ story once we’ve got your brother patched up. Now, your cell number?”

Dr. Stone’s explanation is almost clinically dispassionate. Dean is still half-convinced this is a trap, but part of him doesn’t care. Sam could die if he doesn’t do something, trust someone. He gives Dr. Stone his number. She repeats it back to him.

“Yeah, yeah that’s it.”

“We’ll see you a little after two, god willing. It sounds like you know more than your basic first aid, so just keep an eye on your brother’s vitals until we get there.”

Dean thanks her and hangs up, really hoping he hasn’t just made a terrible mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

_________________________________

Dr. Stone is a statuesque blond, only an inch or two shorter than Dean himself in her practical flats. Dr. Franklin is much shorter, dark and lanky with a slight accent that Dean can’t place- maybe Eastern European. The older Winchester meets them outside the Men of Letters’ bunker when he gets Dr. Stone’s call telling him they’ve arrived. The numbers on his screen read 1:59 pm. The doctors must have really booked it down the highway and Dean is grateful. He finds them standing by a silver Volvo, wearing lab coats over business casual attire and holding large cases made of thick black leather.

“Dr. Stone?”

“Please, call me Sandra. This is my husband, Emilian. And you must be Dean.”

After the perfunctory niceties and brief handshakes Dean only pauses for a moment before allowing the couple into the bunker. It may be foolhardy, but he has to. For Sam.

Dean shuts the door behind him and leads the doctors to the infirmary. Dr. Stone’s composure falters as she gapes at the bunker’s interior, the tales from her childhood becoming a reality. Dr. Franklin seems unfazed by his surroundings and Dean wonders if he knows anything about the situation or if he’s just going along with his wife. Dr. Stone’s poise takes another hit once she gets a look under Sam’s bandages.

“Oh my god.”

Dean really doesn’t like the shock in her tone.

“I told you. Can you fix him?”

It comes out more irritably than he’d intended, and Dean silently curses himself for the poor word choice. Dr. Stone, probably accustomed to the careless tongues of patients and their relatives, doesn’t seem to notice.

“We can make him- _functional_ again, but there’s really no way to fix this.”

Dr. Franklin is taking the sight of Sam’s mangled groin much better than Dean thinks any man should. He looks up at Dean.

“How did this happen?”

Dean feels the blood rush to his head. With burning ears he stammers out the explanation he gave to Dr. Stone on the phone.

“It- it was a demon, like I said.”

Dr. Franklin is watching him guardedly.

“No, I mean, how were his genitals removed? Hands, teeth, knife- ?”

Dean is getting angry, irrationally so, he knows. But after Dr. Stone’s reproach and Dr. Franklin’s dispassionate reaction to the way Sam’s life has been ruined, not to mention the accusatory way he’s interrogatingc Dean, the hunter can’t help but snap at the doctors.

“Does it really fucking matter _how_?”

“Yes, it does matter.”

Dr. Franklin exudes authority and Dean finds himself cowed by the smaller man.

“It was a- a knife. A knife made of bone.”

“Thank you, that is very helpful.”

Dr. Franklin opens his case while Dr. Stone examines the contents of the infirmary’s cabinets. The tall doctor glances sympathetically at Dean where he stands by Sam’s side, shoulders slumped in defeat. She walks over to him.

“It might be best if you waited outside while we work. This might be hard to stomach, and you wouldn’t want to get in the way.”

“No, I need to stay here with him. Please.”

Dr. Stone puts her hand gently on Dean’s shoulder.

“I know you want to. I know. But you really can’t.”

Dean’s heart rate increases. No one tells him he can’t stay with Sam. No one. Before he can say something he regrets, however, Dr. Stone speaks again.

“It was you, wasn’t it? That the demon possessed?”

Her voice is soft and compassionate. The comfort and understanding she offers Dean is irresistible.

“Yes.”

It’s essentially the truth, albeit a bit less complicated than the whole story. Dr. Stone nods.

“I understand, Dean. Remember what I said about finally believing my father’s stories about all this? The same thing happened to me.”

Dean looks at Dr. Stone with newfound sympathy.

“Did you- did you hurt someone, too?”

“My son,” Dr. Stone’s eyes harden. “I slit his throat. Well, _it_ slit his throat, laughing the whole time while I screamed and screamed inside my own head.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was years ago.”

The detachment that Dean had heard before creeps back into her voice. She shakes her head slightly.

“The point is, I know what you’re feeling, Dean. Please, wait outside, let us save your brother.”

“Okay,” Dean swallows. “Okay. Uh, how exactly are you going to save him?”

Dean knows that Sam’s- _parts_ can’t be reattached, his dark self had seen to that. Secretly, he hopes that the doctors can work some sort of medical miracle and at least _replace_ some of Sam.

“We can’t give him back what he’s lost, if that’s what you’re asking. But we can prevent him from scarring too badly. The biggest issue is making sure he can defecate properly so we’re going to have to reroute his urethra. We’ll make an incision close to his anus, for maximum hygiene, and he’ll urinate through that from now on.”

Dean comprehends what she’s saying. He’s a smart guy, and much smarter than he generally lets on. He’d known to call a urologist as soon as he’d seen Sam’s injuries. But hearing it like this overwhelms him. It makes what he’s done to Sam all the more concrete. His distress shows on his face, but Dr. Stone mistakes it for confusion and simplifies her explanation.

“So, we’ll make him as smooth as possible and we’ll give him a way to pee efficiently.”

“But- ?” Dean asks automatically, though he already knows the answer. “But he’ll have to sit to pee, right? Like a- ?”

He can’t finish.

“Yes, he’ll have to sit, like many women do.”

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid how much that _matters_ , but it does. It matters to Dean and it will matter to Sam. Dean feels his eyes welling up and he forcefully, and successfully, blinks back his tears. _Speaking of girls- you gonna cry like a little bitch? Huh?_

It’s not fair. It’s more than that, it’s cruelly _unjust_ how it’s _Dean_ who fucks up and it’s _Sam_ who has to suffer permanent, debilitating mutilation for it. Dean’s pit of self-loathing expands, threatening to swallow him whole.

“We have connections,” Dr. Stone continues soothingly. “We can get Sam started on hormone replacement therapy as soon as possible.”

Another issue Dean hasn’t thought about.

“We’re prepped,” Dr. Franklin calls to his wife. Dr. Stone squeezes Dean’s shoulder before removing her hand.

“This will be a long procedure, Dean. One of us will be out in a few hours to let you know how it’s going.”

Dean nods to let the doctor know that he’s heard. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Dr. Stone watches him leave the room. When the swinging doors close behind him Dean stands motionless in front of them, watching the light move through the round plastic windows.

Suddenly he’s hit with a wave of nausea so strong he barely makes it to the toilet in time. Dean’s stomach empties itself of its contents, he gags and chokes at the force of its purge. Soon, Dean’s dry heaving into the bowl, his nose and eyes streaming. When he’s finally finished, he curls around the porcelain base, shaking. He doesn’t allow himself to return to the hallway outside the infirmary until his tremors stop. And he doesn’t allow himself to cry.

* * *

Sam wakes up in his own room, carefully tucked into his bed. He feels pleasantly light, like he’s floating, and his foggy mind realizes he must be hopped up on painkillers. Really, really _good_ painkillers. He can’t remember a reason why he would need to be drugged like this, but he can’t find it in himself to care either.

He slowly becomes aware of three IV lines attached to his left arm, dripping fluid into him. Whether they’re saline or morphine or some other unknown compound he isn’t sure, but if they’re meant to hydrate him they’re not doing their job because his throat is dry and scratchy with thirst. Sam shifts, sitting up against the headboard with some effort. He feels a strange pulling sensation in his groin as he does and he fumbles under the blankets to adjust himself.

His hand travels down to find rough bandages, a thin plastic tube, and nothing else before it reaches his thighs.

Sam gives a strangled yelp as he throws the blankets off and sees his flat, empty groin. Tan bandages are wrapped tightly around the area and a Foley catheter snakes out from between his legs. He stares in dumbfounded horror.

Dean rushes through the door at the sound of Sam’s cry, his cellphone snapping closed and hurriedly stowed in the pocket of his jeans. In his other hand he carries a full glass of water, as if he’d anticipated Sam’s need.

“Sam? Sammy!”

At the sight of Dean it all comes flooding back to Sam. The color drains from his face and he throws up his hands to block Dean from touching him. He remembers everything- lying on the bathroom floor with Dean on top of him, the cruel cut of the donkey’s jawbone as his cock and balls were ripped away, Dean’s defilement of his vulnerability. He covers his face with his trembling hands.

“Oh god, Dean. What did you do to me?”

It’s not a question meant to be answered and Dean doesn’t. He places the water on the bedside table and stands there, resisting the urge to embrace his miserable little brother. They stay like that for a long time before Sam uncovers his face. He regards Dean briefly but finds he can’t look at his brother for very long. He turns his head to the opposite side of the room.

“How- ?” Sam gulps. “How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

Dean’s gruff voice is quiet and tinged with shame. Sam finds that he’s glad for it. He swallows again and asks the question he’s most dreading the answer to.

“Do I- Do I have anything left?”

“No- ” Dean’s voice breaks. “No. Oh god Sam, I’m so- ”

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare apologize to me.”

Sam’s voice is flat and cold. The numb euphoria of the drugs still pulls at his brain and he desperately wants to sink back into the Lethean fugue, but he can’t. He’s still unable to look at his brother. The view of Dean’s face will only trigger the memories of that same face twisted in sadistic triumph as it raped and ruined him.

“Sam, please. Listen- ”

Dean’s voice implores Sam to hear, to accept his remorse and to forgive. Sam is suddenly filled with hatred. Yes, Sam understands being possessed. He knows what it’s like to lose control of your actions, to give in to the darkness inside of you. That’s not what he’s angry about. Right now he can’t believe the audacity of his brother, to make this about _Dean’s_ pain, _Dean’s_ need, when it’s _Sam_ who’s been abused and broken. _Sam_ whose life is effectively over.

“No, you listen. Get the fuck out.”

“Sam- ”

“Please. Get. The fuck. Out.”

Sam’s rage is calm and calculated. He’s even polite about it. That’s what throws Dean. If Sam had screamed or sobbed Dean probably would have ignored his brother’s demand. But this Sam, so reminiscent of the time spent without his soul, this Sam scares Dean. He leaves wordlessly.

Sam stares at the empty doorway for a long time before reaching over to his bedside table and retrieving the glass of water. He drains it in two mouthfuls and replaces the empty cup. Only then does he collapse into himself and quietly weep.


	4. Chapter 4

________________________

 

Dean stands outside Sam’s room, just out of view of the open door, listening to his brother’s choked sobs. Every instinct he has is telling him to go comfort Sam. He fights against them; the best thing for Sam right now is a-whole-fucking-lot of _not_  Dean.

Dean’s been thinking about the circumstances that led to- to _this_ for the past three days. Ever since Dr. Stone and Dr. Franklin had finished the surgery and gone back to Topeka, Dean has had nothing to do except think while he waited for Sam to regain consciousness.

The doctors had managed to successfully deliver what they’d promised. Dr. Stone had shown a pale Dean the work they’d done- the stitches in Sam’s groin and torn anus. His new urethral opening. As he’d stared at Sam’s shaved smoothness Dean was glad he’d already thrown up everything he’d eaten.

Dr. Stone had given Dean specific instructions as her husband packed up their equipment. Dazed, Dean only half heard the litany of do’s and don’ts. Luckily, Dr. Stone also had a pamphlet of written post-surgery care. Dean carefully took it from her, holding it like something precious and delicate in his trembling hand. Dr. Stone had written her private number on the back.

“Call us at any time,” she’d told him sincerely. Dr. Franklin had nodded in agreement.

“Unless there are complications, we’ll be back in a week to check-up on Sam and talk to him about HRT. After that, we’ll play it by ear.”

Dean had thanked them, had offered to pay, but they’d waved him off.

“It was an honor to help the Men of Letters,” Dr. Stone had said with a tired smile. Dean hadn’t found it in himself to smile back.

Once they’d left, Dean had set up portable bed in the infirmary. The doctors had warned him not to move Sam for at least a day and he had complied. But he also wasn’t going to leave Sam’s side unless absolutely necessary. Not surprisingly, Dean had been unable to sleep that first night. He had lain awake, his head replaying what he remembered over and over again.

* * *

Their morning starts off normally enough. Sam goes for a run while Dean sleeps in, taking advantage of the lull in jobs. Dean wakes up when Sam gets back and they make breakfast together. Dean fries up some bacon and eggs while making disparaging comments about Sam’s fruit-granola-yogurt thing. “Girly rabbit food,” Dean calls it.

(He’s going to have to watch that sort of language from now on, he’d realized with a pang of guilt).

“Right, Dean. Because a heart attack before thirty-eight is so damn _manly_.”

“Damn skippy,” Dean laughs, shoveling delicious cholesterol into his mouth.

(Dean had wondered if they would ever be like that again. That normal, friendly brotherly rivalry. It had hurt to dwell on it too long).

After breakfast, Sam announces that he’s going to take a shower.

“I’ll inform the media,” Dean teases.

Dean ignores Sam’s trademark angry-Muppet face before his little brother tromps off. Dean surfs the internet for any paranormal-looking occurrences. They have to find Crowley and the First Blade- _his_ Blade he thinks possessively. He swears that this will be the time he finally puts an end to that fucker, once and for all. And then Abaddon. Maybe then they’ll have a respite from demonic bullshit.

(Who was he kidding?)

He hears the shower start running and his thoughts drift, against his wishes and against his control, to what his brother is doing at that moment. He imagines Sam’s tall, powerful body naked and sweaty from his run, as he steps into the steaming water. His long hair is plastered to his scalp as he raises his face to the heat. His soft cock and heavy balls drip with run-off.

Or maybe Sam isn’t soft at all. Maybe he’s hard, has been since his run, stiff and eager and uncomfortable all through his breakfast with Dean. Slyly adjusting himself when Dean wasn’t looking. Maybe Sam is jerking off right now as Dean sits picturing it, his own cock growing stiff with desire for his brother.

These thoughts are not new to Dean. They creep into his mind every now and then, ever since they were teenagers, and he’s been having them more frequently since he took Cain’s Mark. He tries to tell himself that it makes sense, the way he and Sam were raised together so closely. The way his father had drilled into Dean the need to always, _always_ take care of Sammy at any cost. It’s only natural that some of his primal urges would get mixed in there during his formative years. It doesn’t make him a pervert or a horrible person. Right?

(He’d been wrong. He’s sick. A deviant. God, why is he so fucking disgusting?)

He knows it’s part of the reason he can’t let Sam go. Even when Sam wants to go, even when Sam wanted to die after Dean stopped him from closing Hell. Because Sam is his everything and he doesn’t know another way to be. Those years Sam had run off to college, that year he’d spent with Lisa and Ben after Sam had jumped into Hell, that year he’d been in Purgatory- Dean had functioned but he hadn’t really felt whole. Not until he was with Sam again. There are others he loves, others he needs, but not like he loves and needs Sam. And he knows it’s not right. It’s not good. Not healthy. It just is.

Back in his daydream, Sam is groaning softly as he brings himself closer to orgasm, his right hand sliding frantically over his hard cock while his left hand supports his broad frame against the tiled shower wall. Dean adjusts his erection, rubbing himself through his jeans. He grimaces slightly when the denim chafes against his sensitive flesh through his thin cotton boxers. His brother is coming in his fantasy now. Sam grunts out his release, painting the wall with his essence as his hand strokes progressively slower. He exhales in relief as the tension drains from his body.

(Soul-crushing guilt had enveloped Dean as he stared at the white infirmary ceiling and listened to Sam softly breathe. He’s fucking scum, that’s what he is. He’d forever robbed Sam of this. This basic satisfaction that Dean has always taken for granted).

Dean can still hear the shower running as his erotic thoughts fade to reality. A reality where he is hard and uncomfortable and unsatisfied. There is a small spot of wetness seeping through the front of Dean’s Levi’s and his balls throb with pent up lust that demands his immediate attention. There’s no way he’ll be able to concentrate on research now. He should take a shower, too.

_You could join Sam in the shower._

Yeah, right. Dean’s never told anyone that he sometimes thinks about Sam like this. It’s the height of Dean’s secret shame. But if someone had to know, Sam is the last person he ever wants to find out. Dean can’t bear the thought of Sam’s revulsion if he learns about Dean’s dirty, incestuous inclinations. He remembers his brother’s face, years ago, when Sam discovered that some fans of the _Supernatural_ book series wrote slash fiction about them. The disgust in his voice when he’d said the word _Together_ . That was the moment Dean knew he’d rather die a long, tortuous death (again) than ever let Sam know. “ _Well that’s just sick!_ ” He’d said, and his heart had sank at Sam’s agreement.

The room grows hot and Dean’s heart pounds in his chest like it’s trying to break free. He’s sweating buckets, his shirt is soaked and he rips it off without hesitation. He really does need that shower.

_No, you need Sam._

Why can’t he stop thinking like this? Sure, he’s frustrated and aroused, but this has gone on too long. He’ll go shower and masturbate to a nice, morally acceptable fantasy about- about Scarlett Johansson or Olivia Munn or somebody like that. God, why is it so fucking hot? He roughly swipes at the sweat dripping down his face. As he raises his arm he sees the Mark has begun to radiate with a sinister light. He stares in horrified fascination.

_Sam knows. He knows what you’re imagining and he thinks you’re sick. He’s in there getting off and he’s laughing at you._

No, this is all wrong. These are not his thoughts. They can’t be.

_Teach that withholding little cunt a lesson. Take him. Fuck him. Make him stop laughing at you!_

The First Blade is suddenly in front of Dean, laying across the laptop’s keyboard as if it has been there all along. Dean trails his fingers over its length in wonder. It’s so beautiful and it’s his.

_Just like Sam. Take what’s yours. Make sure he never forgets it again._

Dean’s hand curls into a fist around the hilt of his Blade and the world plunges into a darkness that obliterates the rest of Dean’s recollection. All except his memories of Sam’s screams.

* * *

Now, with Sam awake and rightfully pissed as fuck- _understatement of the year, Winchester_ , he thinks deprecatingly- Dean wants to remember everything even more. Every single cringe-worthy detail. He needs to know what Sam knows, what exactly he’d done to Sam on that bathroom floor. It’s the only way he’ll ever know how badly he’s fucked things up. And what he needs to do to make Sam forgive him. Because he doesn’t know how long he’ll last if Sam doesn’t love him anymore.

_You think he’s ever gonna forgive you for this, you stupid shit? You castrated and raped him like a fucking psychopath. If you can’t live without him then you should just put a gun in your mouth right fucking now. Bullet to the brainpan, squish. No one will miss you. Especially not Sam._

He can still hear Sam crying softly, and he knows that his subconscious is right. He can’t move, he can barely breathe, all he can do is stand by Sam’s door and listen to the consequences of who he is and what he’s wrought.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Sam dreams of the Cage again.

It’s funny- well, not _funny_ funny - but Sam has experienced all of this before. In Hell, locked up with two bored, vindictive archangels, there’s not much Sam _hasn’t_ experienced. Violation and mutilation aren't even close to the worst things that they did to him there. The memories had almost killed him a few years before. It had been Dean that got him through that time, until Castiel absorbed the significance of those memories from his mind. Sam can still remember, can still see echoes of his time in the Cage with Lucifer and Michael, but Castiel had removed the emotional resonance of what had happened. Sam’s memories of Hell were detached, like he would remember an interesting legal fact from one of his textbooks at Stanford.

But now the trauma is returning to Sam’s recollections. Now he has a new point of reference for what Michael and Lucifer (but mostly Lucifer) had done to him. And, unlike the Cage, he’ll never be made whole at the end of the ordeal. That had been a torment in itself at the time, being remade just so they could tear him to pieces all over again. Still, he’d welcome it now.

Sometimes he thinks he’s still in there. The thought has never really left him since his soul was restored. It ebbs and flows. When life is manageable he barely acknowledges it. But when it’s not- _Maybe you’re still in Hell._

When Dean literally disappears before your eyes and you don’t know what happened for a whole year? When you finally get to meet your time-displaced grandfather only to watch him gutted by the last Knight of Hell? When you fail at closing the gates of Hell, probably your last shot at redemption, just like you’ve failed at everything else in your life? When your brother tricks you into angelic possession when you’d rather just die? When said angelic possession leads to your body being the instrument that kills Kevin, who you’d already failed considerably? _Clearly you’re still in Hell._

And now this.

Sam doesn’t dwell for too long on these memories. He’s always been good at compartmentalizing his feelings, his trauma. He’s done it all his life, a necessity for the way he grew up and how he chooses to live now. You push the emotion aside and focus on the task at hand, whatever that may be. Although, when the emotional dam finally bursts, the flood tends to consume anything and anyone in its path. Not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, Sam reflects. And isn’t he the biggest hypocrite of them all? Always pushing his brother to open up and talk about his feelings. Taking a metaphorical sledgehammer to Dean’s dam until he can’t help but break. Distracting himself, hiding himself, with Dean’s pain so he doesn’t have to deal with his own. Dean does the same to him, too, in his own way. _Take care of Sammy, make sure Sammy’s okay, don’t deal with your own shit just focus on Sammy_ _._ They’re so fucked up.

_You deserve each other._

It’s been almost two months since the incident in the bathroom. Two months of compartmentalizing and avoiding. It’s much harder now. Now that he doesn’t have Dean to hide behind anymore. He can’t even stay in the same room with his brother for very long, Dean’s very presence makes repressing the memories nearly impossible. Their conversations are a few gruff words at best. Mostly they just nod at each other.

Sam tells himself that he doesn’t blame Dean, but that’s a lie. He feels such rage when he sees Dean. Not necessarily at Dean himself, but at their whole relationship. Their whole life they’ve been so fucked around with- mentally, emotionally, physically- that it’s impossible for them to form healthy bonds with _anyone_. The only difference is that Dean doesn’t care. More than that, it seems like Dean likes what they have. That he can’t and won’t have it any other way. That he’ll go to horrible lengths to ensure that Sam plays along.

_Just leave, you fucking coward._

And oh, he’d tried. As soon as he could move again he’d packed a duffel bag and strode purposefully through the bunker. Dean had watched him, Sam’s face looking anywhere but Dean and daring his brother to say something or try and stop him. To his credit, Dean hadn’t. Just stood and watched. Maybe that had been worse, in how very unlike Dean it had been. It had made Sam worry about his brother’s mental state. _Worry about you._ He’d admonished himself. _You don’t control Dean, you only control you. And you have the best chance of having a somewhat decent, normal life without him._  

Sam had made it as far outside as the front door. As it slammed shut behind him Sam realized he had nowhere to go. And a nomadic, motel-to-motel existence was right out. He had all sorts of new, special needs. His hormones, for one thing. He got those sent directly to the bunker from their MOL doctor friends. Yeah, he could probably arrange to have them sent somewhere else, but he found talking to Dr. Stone and Dr. Franklin exhausting and slightly embarrassing. And there was no way he’d let Dean arrange it for him.

No, Sam had realized he was stuck. Even more so than he’d ever been before. Sure, His other attempts to get out from under Dean (and his father) had ended in spectacular disaster. Jess’ death. Ruby’s ulterior motives. At least poor Amelia had gotten to live. But he had always had the option of leaving if he wanted to, and that had sustained him through some dark times. Now, though-

**_Now you literally don’t have the balls to leave._ **

_Ha, ha. Ooh, burn. Good one, brain!_

(You either laugh or you cry. And he’d cried far too much already).

So he’d stayed. He’d marched right back through the door, past where Dean was still standing, and into his room to unpack. Dean never mentions it and Sam never seriously thinks about leaving again. Dean’s finally won. He’s chained Sam to him forever. And Sam can’t even hate him for it- oh he’s angry, but he can’t _hate_ Dean because he had been possessed. By something he’d let into himself in order to stop a greater evil. What kind of awful, hypocritical, selfish person would Sam have to be not to understand that? To forgive, like Dean had eventually forgiven him?

_Key word: eventually. And, yeah, you beat the shit out of him, fine. He cut off your dick and balls and then raped you. There’s kind of a difference here._

He’d forgiven Castiel for breaking the wall in his mind almost immediately. He’d finally figured out why about a week after Castiel’s apparent death in the reservoir. There was the obvious answer- Cas, like Sam, had hurt someone he loved for the greater good. But it also hadn’t been personal. Cas had had no malice towards Sam himself, he had just seen the most effective way to distract and decommission both Sam and Dean simultaneously. It had hurt, but Sam had been able to understand and forgive.

This- what Dean had done to him- had been nothing but personal. Sam’s not sure what exactly the significance of viciously taking away his bodily autonomy had been, but he’s sure that it had been personal. The look on Dean’s face as he’d nullified him had been full of spiteful glee. When he’d crushed Sam’s sex to nothing on the tiled floor he’d made sure Sam was watching everything. _This is what you are to me_ , his eyes had said as he’d ripped his way inside of Sam. Sam’s tears and screams had only fueled his desire.

_You should still forgive him. He’d forgive you._

Why, though? Why should they forgive each other? Because they’re family? Brothers? Plenty of siblings live on opposite sides of the country, rarely talk, or only see each other on holidays. There’s nothing wrong with that. What’s wrong is what Sam and Dean have. This debilitating codependency. It’s not healthy, goddammit. And look what it’s gotten them. Look what it’s gotten Sam.

_What it’s gotten you is a whole lot of nothing between your legs and a whole lot of bullshit between your ears. How’s that working out for you?_

The doctors had told him that balancing the hormones would be a tricky process. It might even take years to figure out the right dose. In the meantime, the side effects of his- _you can use the word, it’s just a word_ \- his _castration_ seem insurmountable. He sometimes has hot flashes, just like a menopausal woman, and isn’t that perfect? His moods swing like a pendulum, usually between crippling depression and white-hot fury. The HRT gives him a healthy libido but he can’t do anything about it; he’s got nothing up front and no way does he want anything up his ass ever again. Sam doesn’t know what’s worse, the changes you can see or the ones you can’t.

No, he does know the worst. It’s the lethargy. Sam is tired all the time. He wakes exhausted from ten hours of sleep. Walking from his room to the guest bathroom on the other side of the bunker- because he will not go back into the main bathroom- is like running a 10K. And he misses _actually_  running, so damn much. Sam’s not sure how much longer he can shuffle through the motions of his existence, especially now that Dean can’t save him this time. He hates it, how much he needs Dean, but he does. He always will. He was kidding himself before to think he could ever escape what their family legacy and the whole divine cosmic order have made of him and his brother.

_Oh god, this is my life._

Or, you know, maybe he’s still in Hell.


	6. Chapter 6

Two months, three weeks, and six days- _but who’s counting?-_ and Dean’s sitting at the big table in the main room sipping his second Irish coffee of the morning. _Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?_ Even if it’s only 8:20 where he is now and he’s used up his entire flask already. Dean’s always skirted the same line his father had with alcoholism- he knows he has it, knows it’s not okay, and he can’t be damned to give a shit. He has so many worse things to worry about. Hell, the alcoholism helps him get through some of those things.

_If you’re really lucky, your liver will give out soon._

Dean’s suicidal inclinations have mostly abated as time passed. He’s back to his usual way of thinking in that regard. Reckless behavior, live-fast-die-young attitude, save as many people as he can before he bites it. Make his sorry life worth something, but no need to work too hard at preserving it. He’s not going to take any immediate action to end it. Even if everyone would be better off without him-

_Oh, shut up, quit feeling sorry for yourself._

Dean’s been suppressing his need to piss like a racehorse for at least an hour and now that his bladder is putting uncomfortable pressure on his stomach he can’t put it off any longer. Dean stands with a small groan and rushes to the bathroom.

The Men of Letters bunker is equipped with a dorm-style bathroom with four shower stalls, four urinals, four small sinks, and two closed-off stalls with toilets. The floors are tiled with tiny squares of off-white while matching larger squares make up the walls. It’s a large room with the showers to the left as you enter, urinals and toilets to the right, and sinks straight ahead on the far wall. The floor slopes gently to coax any extra water to run into the centered silver drain. It’s stark and sterile, but it had used to be one of Dean’s favorite parts of the bunker. He’d claimed his own shower stall and sink, personalizing them with his soaps and shampoos and a bright blue washcloth to add a little color to the room. The water pressure was awesome, too. He may or may not have tried each shower, comparing and contrasting, until he found his favorite (second closest to the door).

Sam had smiled fondly at Dean’s excitement, not really getting it himself but pleased to see Dean's happiness. That has always been one major difference between them. Sam is wary of permanence, like he’s constantly waiting for someone to tell him “Just kidding, time to go.” Understandable, with the way they were raised in motel rooms and friend’s houses all around the country. Dean himself is often afraid that the rug will be pulled out from under him at any minute. But Dean also craves stability. He has ever since he held his baby brother in front of their burning house with the face of his dying mother seared in his young mind.

He should have known not to get too emotionally attached to the bunker. It’s still standing, sure, but it’s not really home anymore. Gadreel and Metatron had seen to that. And then Dean had hammered the final nail in the coffin.

Dean is a second away from clutching himself to prevent an accident, but he still hesitates before entering. He has every single time he’s had to shower or defecate for the past two months, three weeks, and six days. Biology quickly triumphs over guilt and he practically sprints to the closest urinal. He doesn’t look at the floor.

Off-white is a terrible color for a bathroom. It stains so easily.

Dean relieves himself with an audible sigh. Shake, tuck, zip, and done. _Don’t look at the floor._ Nothing to it, just turn around and walk back out the door. _Don’t look at the floor._ How long has that mold on the ceiling been there? _You should probably do something about that. Doesn’t that shit cause cancer or something? Whatever, you deserve to get cancer anyway. Don’t look at the floor._ Walk out the door, dammit. _Don’t look at the floor._

He wishes there was another bathroom but there are only two. This communal one and the single guest bathroom on the other side of the bunker. And that’s Sam’s. They never even had to talk about it. It was understood immediately. Sam hasn’t been back in here for two months, three weeks, and six days. This is Dean’s bathroom now. He’d made it all his.

He's almost out the door.

_Don’t look at the floor._

_**Dean.** _

He stops, turns, and looks at the floor. He steps forward until he's in the center of the room, his bare feet inches from the Blade. He has no choice. The Blade calls to him and he responds. It’s his, after all.

* * *

After he’d been assured by Dr. Stone and Dr. Franklin that Sam would survive Dean returned to the scene of his crime full of righteous anger. When he’d been throwing up he hadn’t even glanced at the mess he’d made, but once his head cleared he knew that he had to clean it up as soon as possible. He was too afraid to touch the cursed Blade again, but he gave it a vicious kick as far away from the blood and flesh on the tile as he could. It skittered across the floor like some alien insect until it hit the far wall by the sinks, leaving a thin trail of gore in its wake.

He realized then that he still had- _bits_ of Sam all over him. With a muffled shout he ripped off everything he was wearing- jeans, boxers, socks, boots- and hurled them away. He hadn’t even realized how he must have looked to the doctors, shirtless and covered in blood. He had a new rush of gratitude for them, for remaining professional and sympathetic in the face of his derangement. Dean grabbed a white terrycloth robe from a hook and wrapped it around his nakedness while he went to find a change of clothes and some cleaning supplies.

Dean scoured and bleached, used every trick he knew for getting rid of blood and guts. He scrubbed so hard that he made his own fingers bleed with the effort. In the end he managed to get most of it. There were only a few brownish stains marring the tile. _Still too many._

He didn’t know what to do about the Blade. He couldn’t risk picking it up again, although a small, insidious, and frighteningly powerful part of him desperately wanted to. Dean left it where it was. There was no one he could ask to help him move it. He’d deal with it when he had to, in the time-tested Winchester way. He threw his dirty clothes in an old sheet and burned them outside.

Dean then headed back to the infirmary hallway to continue his interminable waiting game. He paused outside the bathroom’s entrance. The need to punish himself was an irresistible force.

_Look at what you did._

He didn’t want to, but his feet weren’t listening to his commands. They drew him back into that room of horrors that had once been a solace. Dean wasn’t even surprised to find that the Blade was resting in the center of the room once more, surrounded by the stains of Sam’s vitality. The bone was spotless again, as if it had absorbed his brother’s blood into itself. Dean couldn’t help thinking how beautiful it was.

_**Dean.** _

Because of course it was talking to him. It said his name with the promise of a sadistic lover. It sent shivers of glorious anticipation down his spine.

**_I am yours, and you are mine._ **

Dean had hastily chosen a long-sleeved flannel shirt when he’d dressed and he resisted the urge to roll up his sleeve and look at his Mark. He could feel the bathroom getting hotter, rolling waves of heat shimmering at the edges of his vision.

_**Where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge.** _

Yes. Oh, yes. _His._

Dean found himself standing before his Blade. He stooped to retrieve it, fingers inches from the handle, when his clouded mind registered the faint bloodstains encircling it. He had a flashback of Sam lying there- screaming, bleeding, dying- because of him. Because of _it._

_No!_

The spell was broken. The bathroom no longer felt like a furnace, in fact it was downright cold. Dean’s reaching hand balled into a tight fist as he fled from the room. He felt the tendrils of the Blade’s power recede from his mind. They would always be there. He had allowed himself to be Marked by them.

The last thing he sensed from the Blade was an ancient, patient hunger tinged with minor disappointment.

_**So close. So very close.** _

Dean could tell that it had been waiting thousands of years for him, though. It was in no hurry.

* * *

**_Dean._ **

The Blade doesn’t always call to him. It’s only happened two more times since that afternoon. Each time Dean had sprinted from the room immediately. He finds that the silence is worse, though, when the Blade hovers on the edges of his perception as he performs his most basic human functions.

_You could go somewhere else._

Shower in the kitchen sink? Piss outside? Shit in a bucket in his room? _Like the filthy animal you are-_

No, he chooses to come back in here. Like a form of penance, even on the days he manages successfully not to look at the blotted floor. It’s like playing Russian roulette every time he comes in. Both Winchester brothers are afraid of this bathroom now.

_But you’re the only one who deserves it._

_**Dean.** _

He’s staring at it. His name entices him. It’s somehow said like everyone he’s ever cared about is saying his name simultaneously. It should be terrifying but Dean finds it comforting. It caresses his mind like a gentle finger on his skin and he would never have detected the hint of malice if he wasn’t listening for it. The room is starting to get warm.

Dean isn’t sure why he does what he does next. Maybe it’s the scarcity of human interaction that’s now a fixture of his life. He can count his close (living) friends on one hand and all of them are currently out of the picture. Cas is god-knows where, Charlie’s in Oz. Dean needs conversation with someone who knows him well. A few words exchanged with Sam every couple days are not enough.

Or maybe he’s just sick of all this passive-aggressive bullshit. He’s Dean-fucking-Winchester and he’s not going to let a relic made from a dead donkey push him around any more. _Man up, Winchester._

“Hey, Blade. What’s up?”

_Oh god, you’re an idiot. What the hell’s wrong with you?_

“Hello? Blade? Or should I call you ‘First’?”

Dean’s voice echoes in the empty bathroom and the ridiculousness of the situation makes everything that happened before seem like a bad dream. He’s talking to a bone, for Christ’s sake. It’s still warmer than it should be and Dean’s right forearm is tingling, but it no longer bothers him. Dean actually laughs, for the first time in two months, three weeks, and six days. It reverberates through the room and Dean stops, hoping that Sam can’t hear.

_**There is no need to speak aloud, Dean. I am inside your head. Our thoughts are as one.** _

“Then man do I feel bad for you. Have you found my really nasty porn stash yet? Oh, and also, I think I’m gonna talk to you out loud. A real man-to-bone conversation.”

_**Dean Winchester, you are a fool. You stand there making jokes while She rises.** _

“And just so we’re clear, when you say ‘She’ you mean- ?”

_**Sheol. Apollyon. Abaddon. First Fallen. Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Queen of Hell.** _

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, too many names. I kinda just refer to her as ‘That Bitch’.”

It’s been so long since Dean let loose like this. It’s like being on a hunt, taunting the enemy before the fight begins, his adrenaline pumping to give him single-minded clarity. Even if this particular enemy is only an inanimate object.

_It’s not so inanimate. And don’t underestimate it. Remember what it made you do-_

“Hold up, you piece of shit!”

Dean’s rage comes over him as unexpectedly as one of Sam’s mood swings, but Dean can’t blame synthetic testosterone for his. He suddenly remembers exactly what happened the last time he conversed with the Blade. What it had used him to do to Sam. He can’t believe that he’d ever considered that that ugly little voice was coming from his own mind.

“You know what? Forget Abaddon. After what you did to Sam, I’m going to smash you to fucking pieces.”

_**You still don’t understand, do you? There is nothing in me that was not first in you. I am yours and I am you, Dean. You are mine and you are me.** _

_No._

“No. I don’t believe you. If you’re anybody’s, you’re Cain’s.”

_**I was Cain’s. Now I’m yours. You chose me and I accepted you. I saw that you have what it takes to possess me.** _

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

_**Brotherly love. Brotherly lust.** _

Dean’s ears flush and his tongue feels too large for his mouth.

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean never would have imagined that a bone could laugh. The only way he can begin to describe the sensation is the sound of a rusty hinge combined with two pieces Styrofoam rubbing together. It screeches inside his head. His shoulders tense and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

_**By the way, how is little Sammy doing?** _

“You son of a bitch.”

His kingdom for a sledgehammer right about now. The First Blade might be indestructible, but it would feel really damn good to pound it into the tile.

_**Dean, I only care because you care. The things we did had to be done. For you. For us. We need to go after Abaddon, but all you could focus on was Sam.** _

The Blade is pulling some serious insane troll logic here. Dean can’t even muster the energy to point out that he’s more focused on Sam now than ever before. It’s apparent, however, that what it had done to Sam- what it had done  _specifically_ \- was influenced by Dean himself. Dean can no longer deny it and the confirmation is more than he can stand.

“You think what we did- what _you_ did- you think that _helped_ me?”

_**You finally consummated your lust. I saw what you were thinking. I saw what you wanted.** _

“Okay, look, sometimes I have fantasies about a four-way between me, Dr. Sexy, Dr. Piccolo, and Dr. Wang, okay? But I _know_ it’s a fantasy! As in never going to happen! And if- _if_ \- I ever had any sort of fantasy about- it wouldn’t have been like that! I never would have forced him!”

_**You reminded Sam who he belongs to, gave him a Mark of his own in a way. You made sure he’ll stay close, stay safe, while you defeat Abaddon. He’ll be waiting for you when you return, victorious from battle.** _

Dean feels like he’s going to be sick. The acidic aftertaste of cheap coffee and whiskey rises in the back of his throat.

“You can’t just- you don’t _do_ that to another person! You don’t make them- against their will- you don’t fucking _castrate_ them and think that will make them stay with you!”

_**I do. We do. We did.** _

“You fucking psycho!”

Dean isn’t sure who he’s talking to anymore, himself or the Blade. Maybe it’s right, maybe they are the same. Cain had never let on that this would be part of the package. That by accepting the Mark he would be accepting the consciousness of an ancient evil into himself. It’s like Michael and the Apocalypse all over again. Only, you know, so much worse.

_That’s what you get for trusting the Father of Murder. Good job, fuckwit._

_**Think about it, Dean. Why do you neuter a dog? Why do you geld a horse? To calm them. To keep them from roaming. To control them. And it worked, didn’t it? Even with those fake hormones poisoning him, has Sam left you?** _

“He wants to. He won’t talk to me anymore and he wants to leave.”

_**But he won’t, will he Dean?** _

“Stop! Stop saying my name and stop talking about Sam like he’s some kind of animal!”

_**You’re all animals, Dean.** _

“I told you to stop saying my name. This conversation is over. I _will_ find a way to destroy you. Until then, you’ll never see me again.”

Dean turns to go, ears ringing. He feels weak, light-headed, and numb from the bizarre horror-show he just starred in. All he wants to do is pull Sam outside, burn this place to the ground, jump in the Impala, and drive away as fast as they can. But he can’t, for many reasons. The first being that Sam won’t let Dean touch him anymore.

_**I’ll find you, Dean. You called me to you before. I slipped from the grasp of that worthless little pretender to the throne and I found you. I will always find you.** _

_Don’t engage. Just leave._

_**You need me. You need me to defeat Her.** _

Dean stops in the doorway, back still turned to the Blade.

“Fuck you. I’ll find another way. I always do.”

One more thing for Dean to do. _Close Hell, free Heaven, kill Abaddon **without** the First Blade, kill Crowley, find Cas, discover a way to destroy an indestructible weapon. Above all, find a way to make Sam okay again. Is that all? Awesome, piece of cake. Oh, yeah, and keep yourself together. Actually, that last one’s optional as long as the others get done._

_**You’ll be back, Dean. I am yours and you will return to me.** _

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Dean exits the bathroom for what he swears to himself will be the last time. It’s taken two months, three weeks, and six days, but he is never, ever going back inside. He feels triumphant, even with the monumental list of tasks he feels he has to accomplish running through his head. He feels free.

Until he notices that Sam is standing stock-still on the other side of the room. From the clenched way Sam stands, from the way his gaunt face has frozen into a pale mask of some indecipherable emotion, Dean knows that his brother has heard every word he said.


	7. Chapter 7

 

* * *

_“Let’s play **Nut-Cracker!** ”_

_The heavily accented voice of the Japanese game show host is almost manic in his excitement. Sam is trying to figure out where the goddamn Trickster has stuck them this time. The first place had been that ridiculous medical melodrama that Dean likes so much. And his brother so had a boner for the eponymous “Dr. Sexy”. Sam doesn’t care about that at all, or even really that Dean enjoys the pseudo-soap opera. He only teases because his brother refuses to admit it._

_TV’s not really his thing. Sam doesn’t watch beyond a few sporting events, some HBO series, scanning the news channels, or the occasional Casa Erotica when he needs a quick release. It’s Dean who’s into TV, so maybe all these situations they’re being thrown in are from shows Dean watches. Sam glances over at his brother and sees that Dean is just as confused as Sam. Great. Looking closer at Dean, Sam sees that his brother’s feet are locked into big yellow shoes attached to a raised pentagonal base. He’s secured in the same sort of contraption, making him stand with his legs spread a little wider than normal or comfortable. A long metal bar is set in the center of the base. It runs between his legs and extends over the base’s edge, topped with a large red ball of hard plastic._

_Yeah, Sam’s got nothing. What the hell?_

_He’s dazzled by bright stage lights when he looks up. He squints at the crowd filling the auditorium, a sea of dark silhouettes chanting and cheering._

_Seriously. **What the hell?**_

_And then the crowd stills, the music slows, and everything is focused on Sam as the host asks him a question. In Japanese. An oversize digital clock begins a countdown, huge red numbers descending from 20. Sam’s desperate assertion that **he doesn’t speak Japanese** is met with the same unintelligible question. A buzzer sounds and Sam’s anxious about what the consequence for a wrong answer will be._

_“I’m sorry, Sam Winchester.”_

_Sam’s panicked inquiry as to the meaning of **that** statement is only met with mimed laughter from the silver-suited host. There’s a whooshing noise as the bar between his legs is released. It swings upward, that thick red sphere aimed directly at his groin. Sam doesn’t even have time to prepare for it._

_There’s an impact that makes him reel backward as far as the restraints will allow. Sam waits in stupefied dread for the pain to follow- that special gut-punched, breathless, racked-in-the-balls kind of pain. He waits. And waits._

_There is complete silence from the crowd. Even the music is dead. The scantily clad assistants stare at Sam in bemusement and the host is looking at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. Sam’s face is burning and he can’t look anyone in the eye so he just stares at the red shoes locking his feet in place._

_“Apologies, ladies and gentlemen. It appears that this one’s nuts have already been cracked!”_

_Big laugh from the crowd. The assistant’s giggles are shrill and grating in his ears. He hears Dean’s full-throated chuckle join in and he looks at his brother, hurt by Dean’s betrayal. Except it’s not Dean standing there anymore. Dean’s body, sure, but his brother’s shirtless and his Marked arm isn’t just glowing it’s fully on fire and gripping that donkey jawbone so tightly that blood drips from his fist. As Sam recoils in terror Dean pulls his feet easily from the restraints and moves in on his captive little brother. Dean’s body inexplicably ripples and shifts into Sam himself. But it’s not him. The look on his own face is one he knows he would never make. Lucifer smiles and strokes Sam’s cheek tenderly._

_“My poor, broken boy. Let me make it better.”_

_Sam is powerless to stop Lucifer from reaching between his legs. The fallen archangel gropes at the front of Sam’s jeans, cruelly emphasizing what isn’t there. Sam can only make a weak noise of protest._

_“Shhh, Sam. Come back to me. I can restore you.”_

_He wants to scream at the monster wearing his face. Things like “That’ll never happen!” and “Get your fucking hands off me!” But a part of him is responding to the promises. A part of him will give or do anything for Lucifer if he will only make Sam whole again. As the scene fades around him, Lucifer’s unwelcome hand becomes more insistent and Sam is appalled to feel a tingle of arousal settling in his lower belly._

_“You can always come back, Sam. You know where I am.”_

* * *

Sam awakens slowly, lying on his back in his bed. Okay, he’ll give his subconscious points for that one. Of all the dreams Sam’s been having for the last three months, this is one of his most inventive. And it isn’t even the worst dream he’s had. Excluding his nightmares that feature a play-by-play reenactment of Dean assaulting him- _And come on, brain, where’s your creativity? You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that_ \- the worst dream that Sam’s been able to inflict on himself is the one where he’s about to get lucky with some faceless woman who, once he takes his pants off, morphs into every sexual partner he’s ever had, all laughing hysterically.

_And how cliché is **that?**_

After the initial shock and despair at what had been done to him passed, Sam had vowed to himself that he wouldn’t think of his situation in outdated ways. Of course he’s still a man. Men can get raped, men can get mutilated. Not all men have a penis and testicles. There are trans men and men with medical conditions and- and he’s Sam Winchester, dammit. It’s 2014 and he is _better_ than that oppressive kind of thinking.

It’s hard sometimes. Yes, there are many different ways to be a man and none is right or wrong. But Sam’s expression of manhood has always included the genitals he was born with, he had never envisioned a future without them. His upbringing and his entire society are all in his head, taunting him. Some days it’s hard to argue with their “way-things-are” logic. Those are usually the days he doesn’t leave his bed.

Back to his latest dream, though. Sam has to laugh ( _laugh or cry, Sam, laugh or cry_ ) when he thinks about how his past self would have reacted to learn that one day he would _miss_ getting hit in the balls. How nineteen year old Stanford Sam would have reacted. Sitting in the dorms late at night with Brady- actual Brady, not the demon- and his friends, drinking cheap beer and playing “Marry, Fuck, Kill” or “Never Have I Ever.” No, more like “Would You Rather?” His entire life has become a macabre game of “Would You Rather?”

_Sam Winchester, let’s play “Would You Rather?!” Would you rather be raped or castrated? Would you rather keep your cock or your balls? Oh, you can’t choose? Chug your drink, then._

Sam is ashamed when he realizes that the dream has caused him to have one of his nocturnal emissions. Call him prudish, but he’d rather not get off to thoughts about one of his rapists- who, hey, also happens to be Satan himself- feeling him up while wearing his face. Shit, and now he’ll have to wash his bedding and take a shower. Still, it could be worse. At least he knows it’s not one of those psychic dreams he used to have.

_You used to have superpowers. God, you used to be something. What are you now, Sam? Nothing._

Except he’s been nothing for years. An unclean thing since he was six months old and now he can’t even-

_Nope, that’s enough of that._  

Sam throws off the blankets and stumbles out of bed. He strips the sheets and comforter from the bed and stuffs them in his laundry basket. His boxers and sweatpants follow. Sam quickly pulls on a pair of baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, glancing at the digital clock on his dresser. 5:57 am. He hoists the overflowing basket in his arms and heads to the Men of Letters’ laundry room.

* * *

When he’d woken up from his first wet dream since the bathroom, Sam had been afraid that he’d pissed the bed. That his new plumbing was defective and he was having leakage issues. Or that he’d have to call the doctors and they’d come back and operate on him again. The wetness hadn’t smelled like urine, though, and it was slick and sticky and- _oh_ _._ No wonder he’d felt more relaxed. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been dreaming about.

Dr. Franklin had told him that this was a possibility when he and Dr. Stone had returned to the bunker a week after saving Sam’s life. Sam had been dreading their return since Dean had told him about it, the morning after the first day Sam woke up and kicked Dean out of his room. He’d glanced over the pamphlet of post-surgery aftercare that Dean had acquired from the urologists, fighting back his depression and taking solace in the matter-of-fact instructions the crumpled paper provided. Along with the pamphlet the doctors had left behind a salve for the surgery site and Sam dutifully applied it every twelve hours, carefully dabbing the ointment on his stitches without looking down at himself. To see right away would have been death. To think too much about what had happened would have been death.

Meeting Dr. Stone and Dr. Franklin had been painfully awkward. They’d given Sam the friendly “call us Sandra and Emilian” bit that they all knew would never happen and then Sam thanked them for saving his life. His gratitude was forced, but he’d smiled convincingly and listened attentively to their advice about HRT. Answered all their questions and asked some of his own. Like the smart, good person he thought he ought to be.

It’s not that he wasn’t grateful that they’d been willing to drop everything to come and save his life. They were good people, and he could appreciate that. It’s just- it’s just maybe it would have been easier if they hadn’t come. If they’d just let him die. But no, Dean had swooped in and arranged for his life to be saved. Again. It was getting old. Sam just wanted it to be over. Finally over. No, he wasn’t going to kill himself. Not when Hell loomed on his horizon. Whether or not he was still in the Cage and killing himself in the illusion would bring worse torments, Sam was pretty sure that he’d end up in Hell one way or another. Being the guy who’d set Lucifer free on the world and all. So he would never end it himself, even if some days it was so very tempting to track down his 9mm from wherever Dean had hidden it and stick it in his mouth.

But, no, they had patched him up and kept him alive. So here he was.

If Sam had been able he would have had them leave _something_ down there. Whatever flaps of skin had surely remained after the crude cut of the donkey’s jawbone, just to remind himself that he’d once had something there. He’d finally looked, the night before the doctors’ return. All they had left him was a little indent where his penis had been and a long, jagged scar where his scrotum had been attached. He’d cried for hours afterwards, overcome with shame and hopelessness, curled up on his bed in a fetal position. Dean had been wise to remove every potential weapon from Sam’s room previously.

Sam had eventually decided on hormone injections over the Androgel that Dr. Franklin in particular had been pushing. It felt more natural to him, needles over topical application. Dr. Franklin had then listed all the possible side effects to look out for. Some of them were alarming and Sam made careful mental notes. It was damned if you do, damned if you don’t with HRT. Don’t take testosterone? You might gain weight, grow breasts, get hot flashes and mood swings. Take testosterone? You might still gain weight, grow breasts, get hot flashes and mood swings. Great.

Sam had known that Dean was listening outside the door, too. His older brother had let the doctors inside the bunker, shown them to Sam’s room, and then made himself scarce, but Sam knew where he was. Eavesdropping on every embarrassing, life-altering detail.

“You will maintain your sex drive,” Dr. Franklin had intoned. “It may even increase uncomfortably until we find the correct dosage. Rest assured, your sex life is not over. Even without your genitals, you will be able to feel arousal and achieve orgasm. We have information on that somewhere here- Sandra?”

“That’s okay,” Sam had interjected, perhaps too forcefully, as Dr. Stone rifled through a stack of pamphlets. “I-I know about that stuff.”

He’d said it both because he did know, but primarily because he absolutely did not want to talk about this right now. Not with either of them and especially not with Dean standing outside. Honestly, Sam never wanted to think about sex again. The doctors had left the pamphlet anyway and Sam had thrown it away as soon as they left, with another ominous promise to return and remove his stitches and the catheter. Another adjustment Sam would have to make. Squatting to pee.

He had succeeded in holding back his tears until Dr. Stone and Dr. Franklin had left. He heard Dean’s friendly “Bye, Sandra. Bye, Emilian. Thanks for coming, see ya in a few.” He’d been jealous that Dean was able to make a connection with the doctors, something Sam never would have managed to do. He never could connect with people like that. Even when he’d actually had something to give-

_And here come the waterworks. What a shock, the dickless wonder’s gonna cry again._

Yeah, it was really a good thing Dean had hidden those weapons. And that Sam didn’t have the will or the energy to go look for them.

* * *

Dean had replaced the outdated washer and dryer in the bunker’s laundry room soon after the Winchesters discovered the Men of Letters’ secret base. Sam throws his soiled bedding inside the industrial-size washing machine, adds detergent, and chooses the correct settings. He should know them, he’s had to wash his bedding enough times in the last few months, with the bleeding stitches, catheter mishaps, and what now passes for sexy-fun-times for him. The machine sputters to life, churning and shaking as Sam goes to the other end of the bunker to shower. Walking there this morning doesn’t tire him out like it often does, and Sam is happily surprised to find that he has a decent amount of energy today. Maybe not by his previous standards, when he produced his own hormones, but he’ll take what he can get.

The guest bathroom- no, _his_ bathroom- is small. Decorated in gold and cream, it has a luxurious shower bath with a glass door, a cabinet sink, and a toilet. The tiles on the floor feature the bunker’s signature Aquarian star. It feels safe. Of course, the main bathrooms had felt safe too, before. Now Sam always locks the door when he uses the bathroom, even if he’s only brushing his teeth.

He strips and sits on the toilet to relieve himself, ignoring the insistent thoughts about how strange, how wrong it still feels. Everything feels strange and wrong to him. Sitting, standing, lying down, dressing, walking. Everything. There’s an empty space where once there was so much. Sam’s considering trying out a prosthesis, but it seems like a mockery to him. As if an uncomfortable piece of silicone could ever be the same as what he’d lost. All his pants are excessively baggy anyway, hiding anything he may or may not be packing in the crotch area. Clothing manufacturers never seem to understand that not all tall men are wide, too. He’s also lost quite a bit of weight in the last three months, in spite of Dean’s attempts to keep him fed. Not directly, but Sam will wake up in the mornings to find a bag of apples or a box of cereal on his dresser. Dean would probably cook for him, if he thought Sam would accept it. And Sam’s stash of bottled water always remains restocked, no matter how much of it Sam drinks. Some days it’s hard to stay angry at his brother. Dean loves him so damn much.

_That’s not an excuse for what he did._

No, it’s not. The excuse is “I was possessed.” Which, he knows, is actually a pretty good excuse. Sam can barely look at Dean, though. He can’t stand the thought of Dean touching him again. If Dean had just practiced what he’d always preached about never making demon deals and not accepting supernatural powers. But he’d chosen to take the Mark of Cain and wield the First Blade. Or, better yet, if Dean had just let him die, back when Sam was deteriorating from the botched trials to close Hell, then none of this would have happened.

_Yeah, but you’d also be stuck as ghost like Kevin. Or in Hell._

True, but Dean hadn’t known that. Dean just had to control him, just had to keep Sam around for _Dean’s_ sake even when Sam didn’t want to be here anymore. He’d started all of this, selling his soul to resurrect Sam that first time. Just like Azazel, Lilith, and Lucifer had wanted him to do.

**_He sold his soul for you, you ungrateful little shit. He died for you._ **

_But I didn’t want him to! I never would have asked him to! I’m not obligated to bend over backwards for a gesture I never wanted him to make!_

Did Dean ever really have a choice, though? After he was practically brainwashed from childhood to do anything for his little brother? Sam feels a roiling anger for their father. He may pay lip service to the idea that John “did the best he could” when raising them, but deep down he knows it’s a lie. The way he and Dean have turned out is the proof. Sam’s glad that John can’t see him now. He has a pretty good guess at what his father would think of his condition.

_He’d probably be ecstatic. One son chooses to passively follow his orders, and the other son doesn’t have the balls to refuse him. If you can even call him a “son” anymore._

Okay, that’s not fair, Sam has to admonish himself. John had been many terrible things, but he would have been devastated for his youngest son. He probably would have killed Dean for what he’d done, though. Possessed or not.

_Yeah, it’s best that Dad’s not here to see us now._

He wishes Bobby was still alive, even though Bobby had always had a softer spot for Dean. Sam still hasn’t quite forgiven the old hunter for tearing him a new one about not looking for Dean in Purgatory. Bobby hadn’t had the whole story, but he’d immediately taken Dean’s side. _What the hell was I supposed to do, Bobby?_ And would he really want Bobby to know what had happened to him? To see the pity in the old man’s eyes? No. Bobby’s the luckiest of them all, really. He’d been allowed rest in Heaven, his bright soul ascending with a wave of that austerely beautiful angel’s finger. No one gets to Heaven these days. And even if Castiel and the other angels manage to free it, Sam knows he will never see it.

Sam wipes himself- _strange and wrong_ \- stands, and flushes. He washes his hands in the sink, staring at the white sheet he’s tacked up to cover the mirror. There aren’t many mirrors in the bunker, but Sam knows where each one is and avoids them all. He can look down at himself occasionally without becoming despondent, but he knows a glimpse at a mirror- a full appreciation for what he looks like now- will not end well.

Sam glances at his groin, as much to prove to himself that he can as for any other reason. He’s grown out his pubic hair, to cover up the smooth wrongness. He hides his shame in thick, dark curls. His bangs fall over his eyes as he inclines his head and Sam realizes that his hair is getting long again. He hasn’t seen his face in three months. He hasn’t wanted to. He feels his sunken cheeks with long, callused fingers, traces the circles under his eyes. His stubble is rough and patchy from shaving without the aid of his reflection.

Sam reels hastily from the sink, opens the glass shower door, and turns on the water. He tries to clear his mind and still his racing heart while he waits for the temperature to stabilize.

* * *

It’s almost 8:30 and Sam is heading back to the laundry room to switch his bedding to the dryer. He’s still amazed at how much energy he has today. Maybe- maybe he’ll go outside for the first time in three months. He can do it. Head into Lebanon, go to the general store and pick up some groceries. He’s sick of eating Honey Nut Cheerios, red delicious apples, and the odd fried egg he makes when he’s sure Dean’s not in the kitchen. He’s been craving orange juice with pulp, Dean always insists on buying the pulp-free and what’s the point of that? You might as well just drink orange soda.

_Yeah, ‘cause you have so many reasons to stay healthy. Keeping that body strong and functional for- ?_

Because it makes him happy. Because it’s what he knows. And he’ll keep doing it, his self-sabotaging brain be damned. He’s feeling too good right now. Maybe he’ll even try going for a run. What’s the weather like outside? What month is it? He’s lost track.

**_Won’t be needing any of that supportive underwear anymore, will you?_ **

_Nope, guess not._

Sam cracks a smile as he crosses through the war room on the opposite side from the main bathroom. _Bring it, brain. Try and ruin my mood, make my day._ Who knows, maybe his hormones are starting to even out-

There’s a strange sound coming from the bathroom and Sam stops mid-step. It feels like all the air has been sucked from the room. It takes him a moment to recognize the noise as laughter. Dean’s laughter. Right. Because Dean still gets to be happy. Dean still gets to live the life he’s always known. Sam’s heart rate increases and he can’t seem to move. He hears Dean’s voice, faint but mostly discernible in the echoing space of the bathroom. Who the hell is he talking to? Cas?

He knows it’s not fair that he feels so bitter about the possibility. Not when it’s Sam who’s pushed Dean away- justifiably, but still. Sam can’t expect Dean to sit and suffer alone like Sam does. Even if the thought is satisfying to Sam. But no, Dean gets friends. Dean deserves friends. He deserves better than Sam, even if Dean doesn’t want better. Even if Sam is secretly, horribly glad when Dean’s devotion is shown to him alone. It’s wrong and hypocritical, but it’s all Sam’s ever really known.

“Then man do I feel bad for you. Have you found my really nasty porn stash yet? Oh, and also, I think I’m gonna talk to you out loud. A real man-to-bone conversation.”

Sam feels like he’s been doused with a bucket of ice water as he analyzes Dean’s cryptic words. Surely Dean’s not- not talking to the First Blade? Is it still in the bathroom? Had it never been moved, after- ?

_Oh god, this is it. It’s going to possess Dean and he’s going to hurt you again. You knew this could happen. Would happen. You could have left any time. But you stayed. Whatever happens now is **your** fault. _

He realizes that part of the reason he’s stayed is for this. That maybe Dean will finally put him out of his misery, as Sam had asked him to in the aftermath on the bathroom floor. As Dean, no longer possessed, had refused to do. Sam knows what that will do to his brother, and he doesn’t care. It’s about the same regard that Dean has shown for what Sam wants. Sam could hurt Dean, damage Dean like Dean’s damaged him- not that Sam wants to- and Dean would grin and bear it. For Sam’s sake. The only way to truly hurt Dean is to hurt himself.

_Think how awful he’ll feel after he’s killed you._

“Hold up, you piece of shit!”

Lost in his reverie, Sam’s been missing the flow of the one-sided conversation. Dean’s sudden rage recaptures his attention.

“You know what? Forget Abaddon. After what you did to Sam, I’m going to smash you to fucking pieces.”

_Thanks, Dean._  Sam almost means it.

“No. I don’t believe you. If you’re anybody’s, you’re Cain’s.”

Is the First Blade speaking out loud- _and how weird is that?_ \- but too softly for Sam to hear? Or is it only in Dean’s mind? Or maybe- oh god, maybe the Blade doesn’t have a consciousness at all. Maybe it’s all Dean, has always been Dean. Going crazy from letting himself be Marked by a demon.

_Now he’ll know how it feels ._

Sam wishes he didn’t want this. He feels ungrateful, almost evil, but he can’t help it. Whether it’s right or wrong, he wants Dean to get some comeuppance. Dean says a few statements that make no sense to Sam without their context. He can tell his brother is pissed, though.

“You think what we did- what _you_ did- you think that _helped_ me?”

Sudden heat rises up Sam’s spine, like he’s having one of his hot flashes except it passes too quickly. How- how could what had been done to Sam be construed as helping in any possible way? He really hopes that the Blade is talking to his brother. That if Dean ever goes mad it won’t manifest like _this ._

“Okay, look, sometimes I have fantasies about a four-way between me, Dr. Sexy, Dr. Piccolo, and Dr. Wang, okay?”

_Ha, I **knew** he had a thing for Dr. Sexy.   _

**_As if that even matters right now. What are you, five?_ **

“And if- _if_ \- I ever had any sort of fantasy about- it wouldn’t have been like that! I never would have forced him!”

Dean isn’t protesting nearly enough for Sam’s liking. He’s sometimes had this taboo notion that Dean is looking at him with- with _lust_. But that’s insane, and the feeling always passes. Sam’s disgusted by the mere idea, Dean would be, too. Right?

_It wouldn’t have been like that!_  Sam shudders.

_Oh, really, what **would** it have been like then, Dean? What way would it have been when you fucked your own brother? What debauched, incestuous fantasy do I feature in? Oh, but it’s alright! It’s all consensual!_

“You can’t just- you don’t _do_ that to another person! You don’t make them- against their will- you don’t fucking _castrate_ them and think that will make them stay with you!”

It seems to have worked though. Sam always comes back, eventually, no matter what Dean does. _You barely had balls even when you actually had them._

“You fucking psycho!”

Well, they’re agreed on one thing. Sam laughs softly and it sounds like a dirge in his ears. Hey, maybe they’re both crazy. And why does that seem like the least of all possible horrors?

“He wants to. He won’t talk to me anymore and he wants to leave.”

Yes, Sam wants to leave. He wants to leave Dean, the bunker, and his entire existence. Hell, right now Sam will settle for the ability to leave this room. But his body still isn’t cooperating with what he wants. Why would it? It hasn’t for the last three months.

At the same time, Sam wants to stay. With Dean because Dean’s all he’s ever known. At the bunker because it’s become his safety net, his shield against the scorn of the world. And he wants to stay in this existence, no matter how crushingly painful, because the fear of oblivion is so fundamentally strong in him. He also wants to hear where Dean’s apparently one-sided conversation is going, even if he’s dreading the revelations it might bring.

_Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)_

While laid up in bed Sam has done a good deal of reading, including a rereading of Whitman’s “Song of Myself”. It seems applicable to him here. He laughs again.

“Stop! Stop saying my name and stop talking about Sam like he’s some kind of animal!”

And that’s- that’s just- oh god. Oh god. That’s it though. Sam’s always been someone’s pet. John, Azazel, Ruby, Lucifer, now Dean. His brother’s just the only responsible pet owner of the bunch. _Help control the pet population. Thanks, Bob Barker._

“I told you to stop saying my name. This conversation is over. I _will_ find a way to destroy you. Until then, you’ll never see me again.”

It sounds like Dean’s leaving the bathroom. _Time to move, Sam._

Why can’t he move? He feels like a rabbit in a snare. Dean says a few more things but they wash over Sam’s mind without him comprehending their meaning. His possessed and/or crazy brother is coming for him, probably with the First Blade, and Sam is trapped by his own weakness. _Fuck. Fuck!_ What will Dean do to him this time?

_How will he rape you today, Sam? What else will he cut off? You should have left when you had the chance. But no, you wanted this, right? Pathetic. Are you sure you’re the smart one?_

No, he’s not the smart one. Never has been. Sam has knowledge, sure, but not intelligence. Dean has the raw intelligence. The brains and the brawn. Sam’s never had anything, always been nothing. Can’t even decide if he wants to die or not.  _And today had been going so well._ Sam thinks in despair.

Dean walks through the bathroom door. Sam can see that he’s fully clothed and not carrying a weapon of any kind. His heart doesn’t seem to get the memo, however, and continues to fling itself erratically against his ribcage. Dean’s face is oddly peaceful, a faint smile on his lips. It dies when he sees Sam staring at him and Dean stops on the opposite side of the room. The Winchester brothers regard each other warily for a few seconds. Dean rubs nervously at the back of his head.

“So you heard all that, huh?”

Sam opens his mouth before he’s figured out how he wants to respond. Several contradictory statements battle for dominance. What finally emerges surprises both of them.

“I know what you want from me, Dean. Aren’t you going to come and take it?”

Sam stretches his arms out to the sides like he’s being crucified, his brain screaming at him- _what the fuck are you doing?_ Dean is confused, but a flush is creeping up his neck, over his cheeks and his ears. Sam’s fear leaves him in a surge of triumph. Dean knows that Sam knows, and he’s mortified. Sam’s finally got Dean on his own terms, and now it’s Dean’s turn to be afraid.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Sam’s mocking invitation hangs in the air between them and the blood roars in Dean’s ears as he stares at his younger brother. Sam’s arms are stretched to either side, palms out, like he’s welcoming Dean in for a hug. It’s a challenge, almost a predatory gesture, and the emotion twisting Sam’s face, the emotion Dean still can’t read, is something hard and merciless. His eyes are dark caverns of bitterness.

Whenever Dean’s seen Sam around the bunker recently he’s always panicked at how shrunken his brother looks. Sam’s clearly not eating enough and his shoulders are perpetually hunched as if he’s trying to melt into himself and disappear completely, a fruitless endeavor given how big he is. Right now Sam looks larger than Dean can ever remember, straight-backed and imposing despite his haggardness. The combination of Sam’s sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, and the uneven line of his short facial hair make him look slightly deranged. His maroon sweatshirt is unzipped past his jutting collarbone, as sharp and daunting as any blade. Dean can see that Sam’s still got definition to his chest, and his upper arms are strong and full. Despite everything, despite Dean’s tendency to think of his brother as _little Sammy,_ he’s suddenly aware of how powerful Sam is. That this is a man who can kill, _has_ killed, with his bare hands.

_And you took away pretty much everything he had to live for._

Dean’s furiously wracking his brain to remember what exactly Sam might have heard him say to his- no, to _the_ Blade. The thing had been communicating telepathically, so at least Sam hadn’t heard any of what it had said. Dean hopes. Of course, his brilliant little brother has probably taken any vague comment Dean made and figured out the gist of the situation. _Shit, just- just play it cool._

“What are you talking about, Sam?”

Sam laughs humorlessly and his arms drop to his sides.

“Don’t. Just don’t. I heard you in there.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Sam. I said a lot of stuff. That thing is really freakin’ chatty for a six-thousand year old hunk of bone.”

This conversation is the most that the Winchesters have said to each other in what seems like forever to Dean. Too bad it feels so maddeningly wrong. How could it not? The catalyst is Dean’s discussion with a primal evil about the finer points of his brother’s dehumanizing mutilation and rape. They’ve never even discussed it with each other; Sam has shut Dean out completely. Dean knows he deserves it, but he still wants a chance to apologize for bringing this horror down upon them. For stupidly allowing a demonic force access to his inner self. If he hadn’t, Sam would still be whole. Would still love him.

_Would he though? Things have been frosty between you for years._

It’s something Dean doesn’t like to admit to himself. He and Sam are not okay. They really haven’t been since Sam chose Ruby over Dean and inadvertently started the Apocalypse. Everything since then has been an agonizing deterioration of their relationship.

_No, you’re wrong. You and Sam haven’t been okay since you sold your soul._

The revelation hits Dean like a sucker punch. He’s known, he’s always known, but he’s never put it into words. He didn’t want to. He doesn’t want it to be _his_ fault that he’s lost Sam. Because if was _Sam’s_ fault, well, there’s nothing Dean could have done about that. Not really. All he could do is show Sam that he forgives and loves him and Sam could make it up to him by loving him back. But if it really is Dean’s fault, then Dean has failed at the one thing that he was supposed to do with his life.

_That’s bullshit. You’ve been over this before. You’re your own person, not some robotic caretaker for Sam!_

Many of Dean’s loved ones have expressed similar sentiments to him over the years; Bobby, Lisa, Cas. It sounds nice. Affirming. But who is he kidding?

Sam is approaching him with determination. And it’s all wrong. The flutter of hope Dean feels that Sam is actually coming toward him, not balking from his presence, is immediately quelled by that awful look on Sam’s face. His brother halts a good three feet from Dean, still cautious of getting too close. Sam’s hands are balled into fists, his knuckles white.

“You know, Dean, normally when you get your pet neutered the vet leaves its dick alone.”

_Fuck._

Sam’s voice is flat and empty. There’s no buffer between Dean and his brother’s words. Dean can’t blame Sam’s hormones for his anger, so cold and calculated.

“I mean, I should know. I lived with a vet for almost a year while you were running around Purgatory with Cas and that vampire.”

_Here we go._

It’s like Dean’s watching the scene unfold from outside his body. He can’t seem to help himself. Benny’s face burns in his mind, one of the best friends Dean’s ever had, sorrowfully resolute in his final moments. Before Dean had decapitated him. For Sam.

“That vampire’s name is Benny. And, you know, he died to save you. Maybe you should show some fucking gratitude?”

“Right, my bad. He was _your_ friend, so it doesn’t matter that he was a bloodthirsty monster. And I should fall on my knees and thank dear, sweet Benny for dying for me. Like I asked him to do. Oh, wait.”

“Jesus, stop being such a little bitch.”

Dean immediately regrets his words. Sam’s face flushes with what Dean initially thinks is embarrassment, but then he sees that Sam is- is fucking _smiling,_ tight-lipped and frightening. His brother’s eyes flash with triumph.

“Isn’t that how you wanted me?”

He sweeps a broad hand down, emphasizing the air by the fly of his jeans. They’re too ill-fitting to reveal anything about what Dean knows isn’t there, but Dean still flinches. Sam’s callousness hurts him. And sometimes, when Dean’s hurting, whatever little filter he usually manages to apply to his words is flung out the window.

It’s a character flaw, he’s working on it. What the hell do you want from him?

“You know what? Screw you, Sam.”

Oh god, no, that's- that’s not at all what he meant. _You idiot, you stupid fucking idiot!_

“Screw me, Dean? You did that already. But hey, it sounded like you were up for Round Two in there. Should we invite the cast of _Dr. Sexy_ this time? I won’t be able to help out very much, but you’re a creative guy. I’m sure you can find some uses for me.”

Sam chuckles dryly, that same infuriatingly emotionless laugh from before. God, why can’t his brother get angry like a normal person? Shout or curse or break things?

_Because he’s not normal. He never was._

Guilt and anger wrestle for Dean’s mind. They leave no clear winner.

“What do you want from me, Sam? I tried to tell you I was sorry. I _am_ sorry. I am so fucking sorry for- for what I did to you. For letting this thing into me. For letting it take control of me and hurt you like that. But I would never have- not without the Mark and the Blade- I would _never_ have done that to you. You have to believe me.”

“Stop telling me what I have to do!”

_Thank god, at least he’s finally yelling._

“I don’t _have_ to be grateful to people for things I never asked them to give. I don’t _have_ to believe you. And I don’t have to forgive you.”

All true statements. All daggers in Dean’s heart.

“You’re like the king of ‘free will’, Dean. Until people start making choices that _you_ don’t like.”

Dean’s anger throws in the towel, fleeing before the flood of Sam’s rage. Sam deserves to be angry, and Dean knows that he deserves anything Sam wants to hurt him with. He still needs Sam to understand how devastating his remorse is, though. _Maybe then. Maybe then-_ Dean doesn’t even know. It’s some bright, intangible hope that if he can just make Sam understand then everything will be okay again. That it will be him and Sammy from eight years ago. Driving cross-country together. Sleeping in motels. Teasing each other about their preferences in music and food. Fighting simple monsters that have nothing to do with the fate of humanity. Back when their lives had been their own. Deep down, Dean knows it can never be the same. Things change. People change. Even if Dean doesn’t react well to it.

“You’re right, Sam, and I’m sorry. But please. Please don’t- ”

“Please don’t? _Please don’t._ Where have I heard that before? Oh yeah, three months ago, on the bathroom floor. It didn’t get me very far then, if I remember correctly.”

_I deserve this. I deserve this._

**_But it wasn’t you! You don't even remember doing it!_ **

“That’s not fair, Sam. That wasn’t me. _This_ is me. Right here, right now.”

“Fine, it wasn’t you. That doesn’t really help me. Whenever I look at you- It may not have been you, but it was your body. Your hands. Your-”

Sam trails off to take a shuddering gasp of air. Dean has nothing he can say to that. He understands better than most. He knows the disconnect of having the body of someone you love used to hurt you by an outside force. The conflict it stirs inside of you. How difficult it is to process your anger and pain in the aftermath. How guilty you feel for not being able to forgive right away. How resentful you feel that you’re expected to automatically appreciate the hierarchy of blame for the incident.

“What am I supposed to do with that, Dean? You’re sorry? You think ‘I’m sorry’ makes up for- for _that?_ ”

“Don’t you think I know that, Sam? Believe me, _I know._ ”

Sam sucks in another lungful of air and one of his hands goes to rub at the nape of his neck. Dean dares to hope that he sees comprehension, maybe even remorse, in the gesture.

“And look, I know it’s not the same. What- what I did to you because of that thing is so much fucking worse than anything you’ve ever done to me. I know that. And I know that saying ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t good enough, but you know me. I’m not too great with words.”

Dean’s grief and guilt pour out of him. He can’t even feel self-conscious about how vulnerable he’s being because Sam is finally letting him speak. His brother’s posture is still guardedly confrontational, but his face is starting to soften. Dean’s hope is almost palpable and he clings to it.

“How else can I say it? That I would rather let Abaddon win than ever have done that to you? That I would rather die, go back to Hell, and grovel at her feet? That I would rather it had been me, that I would take your place in a heartbeat?”

The very idea of permanently losing that part of himself is fundamentally abhorrent to Dean, but he means it. He’s willing to sacrifice his body, his identity, if it meant not making Sam go through it. He even has first-hand, intimate knowledge of what he’s volunteering to give up. When Dean had been strapped to the rack of Hell’s Grand Inquisitor he had been raped and dismembered by Alastair more times than he can remember. He suspects that, like Sam, he has Cas to thank for that reduction of trauma. He’s also pretty sure that Sam’s had similar experiences with Lucifer. Maybe someday they’ll both be able to talk about it. There’s no reset button here, though. Sam is trapped with what’s been done to him. Dean is abruptly struck by how strong his little brother is. No matter what life throws at Sam, he always manages to keep standing. To keep fighting. It’s one of the things Dean respects and loves the most about Sam.

“Dean-”

He’s missed this so much. The way Sam says his name. The way his brother regards him with wide eyes as if Dean has all the answers. Dean feels like he’s a kid again, that arrogant certainty of youth flowing through him while his little brother looks at him admiringly. Yeah, some things change. But some things don’t.

“Yeah, Sam?”

“Dean. I’m so tired.”

He looks it, too. Almost as weary as the time the voice in his head hadn’t let him sleep for over a week. Sam’s shoulders slump after his admission. It’s both a plea for help and an acknowledgment of his surrender. It’s not necessarily forgiveness, not yet, but it’s more than Dean can believe he’s getting. He resists his desire to offer Sam a supportive arm. It’s still too soon. He’ll let Sam make the first move when it comes to renewing physical contact. Even if it never happens; even if it means he never gets to touch Sam again. He chokes back the despair that follows that possibility.

_It’s not about what you want. It’s about what Sam needs._

Relief courses through Dean when he has that thought, almost making his knees buckle with its power. _This_ is who Dean is. He cares. He loves. Sometimes selfishly, sometimes too much, and he doesn’t always do the right thing. But he’s not some heartless monster. Not some brute who wants to abuse his brother for his own sick pleasure. What had happened in the bathroom had been the Blade’s fault. Dean is also its victim. It had _used_ him to hurt Sam so badly- Dean’s enmity towards that cruel little voice grows even more.

_I will fucking end you,_ Dean flings the vow at the Blade.

“Dean?”

There’s trepidation in Sam’s voice at the fury he sees on Dean’s face. _Right. Sam needs you._ Dean manages to crack a gentle smile.

“Yeah, Sam. You’re- you’re tired? Well, maybe if you’d actually _eat_ something.”

He’s trying to go for mild teasing. Testing the waters of what their relationship is now. Except Sam winces and looks away; Dean doesn’t know what he’s said wrong, but he hastily backtracks.

“I mean, uh, not that you have to eat if you don’t want to. I just meant- ”

Sam mumbles something at the floor.

“What?”

“It’s stupid. It’s shallow and it’s stupid and it really doesn’t matter, but- ”

Sam looks back at Dean unhappily.

“With the hormones- I don’t want to get fat, Dean. I-I don’t want to grow breasts.”

Dean Winchester’s heart has been shattered so many times in his life it’s a wonder he still has one. But he does, and it breaks once more as he hears the dejection in Sam’s voice over the unwanted, uncontrollable changes to his body. Dean knows about the potential side effects; he’d surreptitiously asked Dr. Stone for extra copies of the pamphlets she’d left Sam. He’d been tempted to listen in on Sam’s conversation with the doctors, but had ultimately decided to respect his brother’s privacy. That hadn’t meant he was going to let Sam suffer alone, whether Sam knew it or not. Dean had read all about the HRT, every twinge of revulsion and discomfort a consecration of his penance. But reading about it is one thing. Sam has to live it. And Sam had always been so proud of his body, taken such good care of himself.

“Oh, god. Sammy- ”

Defiance flashes in Sam’s eyes at the pity in Dean’s tone.

“No, don’t. I’m okay. It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”

Sam’s familiar litany of deflections is blatantly forced, but Dean doesn’t push it. Sam’s silently asking him for something, begging with those damn puppy-dog eyes he’s perfected, and suddenly Dean realizes what it is. Sam wants normalcy. He wants their brotherly rapport back. He just wants Dean to treat him like _Sam_ again. Dean almost laughs out loud, giddy that what his brother wants is something he can do.

“Okay, so no ice cream and pizza binges for you. There’s still a lot of wiggle room between looking like Peter Griffin and- and freakin’ Jack Skellington. It’s not one or the other, Sam.”

Dean’s heart leaps when Sam smiles. It’s tired and it’s pained, but it’s still a smile and it’s just for him. Sam exhales audibly.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. C’mon, let’s go to the kitchen. I’m gonna make you something. And before you say anything, I promise it’ll be something disgustingly healthy, just the way you like it.”

Dean can fix this. It’s what he does. Locate the problem, solve the problem. He doesn’t want things between Sam and him to be just _okay_ again. He wants them to be better than okay. The challenge is daunting, but he can do it.

Two months, three weeks, and six days. It only took one day short of three months for Sam to come back to him this time, even after the enormity of what he’d done.

_Told you so._

The thought may or may not be from the Blade. It’s a question he’ll always be asking, which of his thoughts are truly his own? Are any of them?

“I think there may be some- and it pains me to even say this, so I hope you appreciate it- some _turkey_ bacon in the freezer. BLT’s sound good?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Dean can almost see the light coming back into Sam’s eyes.

“Wait, _you_  bought lettuce and tomatoes?”

“Dude, you can’t make a decent burger without all the trimmings. I’ve got some pride, I keep my kitchen well-stocked.”

Sam laughs. A real laugh.

“Is there any beer?”

“Is there any beer?” Dean scoffs. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with an answer.”

“Just asking. Lead the way.”

Dean obliges. There’s still so much that needs to be said, so much that’s wrong in their relationship, but all Dean can focus on is the sound of his brother’s footsteps following behind him. It’s all he needs right now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever since I updated and this is super-short (sorry). Life kinda snuck up on me. Consider this a teaser.
> 
> Also, I finally finished Season 9. Holy shit.

* * *

 

The shapeshifter looks like a middle-aged woman; average height, mousy brown hair streaked with grey, and a tiny bit overweight. It’s dressed in a flowered blue pajama set with matching slippers. It flies at Sam with murder on the agenda and Sam feels familiar uneasiness as he punches the attacking creature in the face. He knows he’s not _really_ hitting a middle-aged woman half his size, but he can’t help feeling like a brute, even after all the years he’s been hunting. At least he knows that the shapeshifter is alone. Not like possession cases. They’re always the worst. Wondering if there was more you could do to save the demon’s host. Knowing that the victim is in there, screaming, feeling every blow. Stabbing them with the Knife anyway-

They'd been doing that a lot more in the last few years. Less about the saving, more about the slaughter.

He remembers Dean confessing a similar guilt a year or so back, the night after a particularly nasty case involving a classroom full of demon-possessed first graders. The demons had been in the process of sacrificing the faculty and staff to summon something Sam had been pretty sure was an eldritch god. There hadn’t been time for exorcism. Only a handful of the children had survived.

_“We hurt innocents all the time, Sammy. Maybe- maybe we’re no better’n the monsters,”_ Dean had whispered before draining his fifth beer bottle and grabbing another. Sam had had nothing to say to that.

The shapeshifter staggers back from the force of Sam’s blow and Sam fumbles for his gun, loaded with silver bullets the night before. Dean comes crashing through the decrepit wall of the abandoned warehouse, about fifty feet away, apparently unharmed after the shapeshifter’s sucker punch had laid him out cold in the first round of melee outside. Sam’s initial relief at seeing Dean shifts like the monster they’re fighting into a swirling mess of shame, guilt, anger, and fear.

_This is what happens when you don’t deal with your bullshit. You end up letting your brother-_

_** Oh god, what did you do Sam? What did you do? ** _

Sam’s distraction allows the shapeshifter to recover. It surges forward and tackles Sam to the ground. His gun skids away from his outstretched hand. The shapeshifter’s lined face twists into a grin as it straddles his abdomen. Sam fights against his panic. The way it’s pinning him reminds him of-

_Stop._

There’s also his fear that the creature will slide lower, feel the emptiness behind his fly. But why does that fucking matter? Hopefully it’ll be dead in the next few minutes anyway. He can hear Dean’s boots hitting the floor as his big brother closes the distance between them.

“Oh, dear. Whatever will you do now?” 

The shapeshifter mistakes the source of Sam’s panic, assumes his fear stems from anticipation of its impending victory. Its voice is high and sweet, full of mock concern with the hint of a southern accent. It plays the part of the face it wears very well. Sam hears Dean yell his name as the shapeshifter grabs him by the front of his jacket, lifts his head and torso off the ground. Sam can smell its rancid breath and it makes him gag and cough.This is the first hunt he’s been on in the five months since the bathroom. He’s gotten rusty.

The report of Dean’s gun echoes through the space. The shapeshifter shrieks and clutches at its right shoulder as red blossoms through the pale blue fabric. Dean’s missed, only winged it as opposed to killing it, and Sam thinks maybe his brother’s not so unharmed after sustaining that blow to the head. Either that or Dean’s gotten a little rusty, too. Even with the solo hunts Dean had gone on, after he’d been sure Sam was okay. After he’d been sure Sam was eating without Dean’s not-so-subtle encouragement. Been sure Sam wasn’t going to blow his brains out once he’d discovered Dean’s hiding spot for their weapons cache in the Bunker’s motor pool.

The shapeshifter hisses like an overgrown house cat and tumbles off of Sam. He scrambles to his feet, going for his gun, but by the time he’s got it secured in his hand and turns back to the monster, it has moved with surprising speed to the far end of the warehouse, pried the soggy boards off a broken window, and is making its escape. Dean isn’t even trying to go after it. He’s reached Sam’s side and is looking at him appraisingly. Dean’s expression, his proximity- Sam finds it unnerving.

“You okay?”

“Dean! It’s getting away!”

“So what? We’ll get ‘em next time. Did it hurt you? Lemme see-”

He reaches out to Sam’s chest, where the shapeshifter had grabbed him by the lapels, and Sam hastily stumbles away. Dean flinches and Sam sees the hurt on his face before it solidifies into an expressionless mask.

“Sorry. I just thought, after this morning-”

“I’m fine,” Sam interrupts harshly.

“Right. Let’s get back to the motel. Figure out where it’s gonna strike next.”

Dean turns and walks to the exit. Sam stares at his retreating back. They’d been doing so well lately, too. Making such progress. And then- fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

_Just when you thought the Winchesters couldn't get any more dysfunctional-_

_**Stop.** _

He lets Dean get about ten feet away before he begins to follow his brother. Sam doesn’t want to go back to the motel. Doesn’t want to look at that room, or that bed, ever again. He’ll ask the front desk if there’s another room available-

_What did you do, Sam? **What did you do?**_

He feels like he’s about to cry. He _wants_ to cry, his face screws up like he’s going to, but nothing happens. Hell, maybe he’s finally all cried out. Maybe he’s used up his lifetime allotment of tears. Sorry, kid, that’s all you get. No more refills.

_Ha. Yeah, right._

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Sam had eaten three of the sandwiches Dean made for him.

It seems like such a trivial thing, but Dean holds on to that memory. He’s at the stove frying up some of that god-awful turkey bacon, stealing glances over his shoulder at Sam leaning on the counter behind him. Sam’s already sliced a fat, red tomato into even segments that bleed into the wooden cutting board and he’s fiddling with his beer bottle, long fingers tapping against the thick brown glass. It’s still three-quarters full and Sam stares at it like it might bite him, but every tentative sip his brother takes has Dean turning quickly back to the burner to hide his smile.

The toaster oven shrilly announces that the bread is done. Dean pulls the dark pieces out, curses when they burn his fingers, makes a face at Sam’s sympathetic laughter, and drops them on a cracked white plate. He applies a generous portion of mayonnaise and places two crisp strips of bacon, two of the tomato slices, and a large green iceberg leaf between the pieces of bread. He thrusts the plate into Sam’s hands.

“Bon appétit.”

“Fancy,” Sam deadpans. Then his face softens. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Sam hesitates. If he’d looked at the beer as if it was going to bite him, he’s looking at the sandwich like it’s going to grab him by the hair and drag him back to Hell. Dean wants to watch Sam eat the damn thing. Fuck, he wants to feed it to Sam himself, make sure Sam swallows every last bite like he’s three again and Dean’s spoon-feeding him mashed peas.

_You’re like the king of ‘free will’, Dean. Until people start making choices that **you** don’t like._

Dean turns back to the stove, Sam’s angry words ringing in his ears. He’ll give Sam his privacy. Sam’s not three anymore, and Dean’s not a scared-shitless seven-year-old trying to get his baby brother to eat his vegetables.

_Nah, you’re just a scared-shitless thirty-five-year-old trying to get your baby brother to eat fuckin’ **anything**_. 

There’s still half a package of turkey bacon left over and it all has to be cooked now that it’s been thawed. Dean puts more butter in the pan and lays five more strips of bacon on top. His heart soars when he hears teeth crunch into toasted bread behind him. He resists the urge to glance over his shoulder. Several minutes pass as Dean prepares a second BLT while Sam slowly eats the first. The bacon crackles, the toaster oven rings, and the plate clinks against the countertop. Sam swallows heavily.

“Thanks, Dean,” he repeats. Dean turns around to retrieve Sam’s plate.

“You can thank me by having another one.”

He doesn’t wait for Sam to answer before he’s placing the second sandwich on the plate and handing it back to his brother. Sam’s face wrinkles quizzically.

“I thought you were making that for _you._ ”

“If you thought I was puttin’ _turkey_ bacon in my mouth, you were very, very wrong.”

Sam laughs softly.

“My mistake.”

This time Sam doesn’t hesitate. It’s as if the first sandwich broke some sort of dam inside of him and half the second one’s gone before Dean can say anything else. He’s surprised, but pleased.

“You know it’s important to chew your food, right?”

Sam mumbles something unintelligible, mouth full. Dean’s laughter is cut short by the smell of burning meat.

“Shit!”

Dean rushes to turn off the burner but is a second too late in preventing the smoke alarm from going off. He swears again, turns on the stove’s fan, and scrambles to find a chair to shut off the shrill screeching coming from the round device on the kitchen’s high ceiling. Sam’s mirth resounds behind him.

“Glad this amuses you,” Dean grumbles, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the fan. He _is_ glad, though. He’s heard Sam’s genuine laughter more in the last thirty minutes than he has in the last eight months and he never wants it to stop. Sam’s already eaten his entire sandwich by the time Dean’s finished with the smoke detector.

“Want another one? Gotta cook all the meat anyway, now it’s outta the freezer.”

“Sure, one more.” Sam raises his eyebrows. “Long as you promise not to make me eat _those._ ” He points at the pan of burnt bacon.

“Oh, they’re not that bad.”

Dean picks up a blackened strip with the silver barbecue tongs. It crumbles like charcoal in his grip.

“You were saying?”

“Okay, fine,” Dean concedes, grabbing the pan by the handle and tipping its contents into the trashcan.

“Dean?” Sam asks as Dean starts preparing a second pan for frying. He says Dean’s name haltingly, and Dean knows Sam’s about to bring out that can of worms they both know needs to be opened but they both want to avoid. The one containing every unspoken, unresolved issue and conflict from the last nine years, and maybe some before that.

“Yeah, Sam?” Dean’s shoulders tense and the emotional shutdown he’s trying to hide makes itself evident in his tone regardless. He’d thought this part was over. He’d thought he’d managed to avoid talking about what he’d done with Gadreel or, worst of all, about what Sam had implied he’d overheard about Dean’s occasional taboo inclinations. Dean’s heart races and blood rushes to his cheeks. The gas burner clicks a few time before lighting.

“I- ” Sam inhales deeply. “Uh, nothing.”

Sam sighs and Dean feels guilty for how relieved he is. That can just got a little bigger. It’s going to be a massive shitstorm when it’s finally, completely opened.

_Who says it ever needs to be opened?_

That’s what he’s banking on.

Even so, Sam had eaten three of the sandwiches he’d made for him. Sometimes, when it gets bad, Dean thinks about that.

* * *

They’d made up a schedule for the guest bathroom that morning in the kitchen. _Like a couple of college girls,_ Dean thinks but doesn’t say. Sam showers in the mornings, Dean in the evenings, and Dean has to tell Sam before he uses the bathroom. It makes him feel like a child, or an inmate, but he fights his annoyance. He doesn’t really have a choice. He can’t go back to the other bathroom. He can’t see his- _the_ Blade again until he’s found a way to destroy it. So he’ll suck it up, keep to the schedule, and give Sam a news bulletin every time he needs to take a piss.

He’ll do it, because it’s what Sam needs to feel safe.

* * *

Four days later, and Dean had found that Sam talking to him again was both a blessing and a curse. Mostly a blessing, but sometimes Sam says things that scare Dean. He’s not sure if Sam does it on purpose or not, and not being able to read his brother bothers him.

“You don’t have to keep the weapons down in the motor pool anymore.”

Dean isn’t sure if that’s meant to comfort or warn him. Is Sam telling him it’s okay to bring the guns and knives back? That he’s not going to hurt himself? Or is it the opposite, is Sam asking Dean for help? Asking him to rehide the weapons because he knows where they are and he’s scared he _is_ going to hurt himself? And will asking Sam outright which one he means make it even worse?

“Kinda used to havin’ them there by now,” is Dean’s careful response. Sam grunts and changes the subject. Dean continues to keep an eye on Sam, but doesn’t move the arsenal.

A few days after that Dean finds Sam sobbing his eyes out in front of the TV, a _Game of Thrones_ DVD playing loudly onscreen.

“Uh, Sam? Are- are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, sorry,” Sam blushes furiously and swipes at his eyes. “It’s just- why can’t they give Sansa a break?”

“Um- ” Dean’s at a loss for words. Sure, he feels bad for Sansa, too. How could you not, unless you were some sort of heartless douchebag? But he doesn’t feel inclined to _cry_ about it. “I mean, yeah poor kid, but- dude, this is a hormone thing, right?”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam manages to bitch-face and bawl simultaneously. It’s kind of impressive, really. “I’m pretty sure this is a ‘hormone thing’ and I’d appreciate it if you left. Now.”

Dean is only too happy to oblige.

* * *

There’s the good times, too. Like when Sam had asked him for a ride into Lebanon for groceries and Dean had known it was Sam’s way of telling him they were rebuilding trust. That Sam isn’t sure he can handle being out in public alone and he wants Dean there with him the first time he goes outside in over three months. At the store, Dean keeps a respectful distance from Sam while never letting him out of his sight. Sam buys a bunch of ridiculous things like avocados, spinach, pulpy orange juice- _ew-_ , and whole grain bread. Dean makes a point to buy more packages of Oscar Mayer bacon than are strictly necessary. He hams it up- pun definitely intended- when Sam makes a face at him.

“You can never have enough bacon, Sammy. Real bacon, I mean. Like God meant it to be.”

“You know, Dean, eating pork was strictly forbidden in the Old Testament.”

Dean remembers just in time that Sam doesn’t want Dean touching him. Instead of playfully swatting his brother on the back of the head, Dean mutters “Nerd,” and leaves it at that. The good times can only last so long- _And it’s your fault. Always your fault._

They stop by the post office on their way home. Sam sits in the idling Impala while Dean checks their P.O. box like he does every week. He picks up Sam’s latest package from _Franklin & Stone, Urologic Oncology and Surgery_ and brings it out to the car, handing it wordlessly to Sam. Before, he’d just leave the box outside the door to Sam’s room. The awkwardness of the current situation makes Dean uncomfortable.

_Here, little brother. Have your newest supply of hormones. That you only need because I cut your balls off. Have I mentioned how sorry I am about that?_

Dean drives them home, desperately thinking of something he can say to break the tense silence. He never does, and neither does Sam.

* * *

Two weeks after their tentative reconciliation, Dean had gone on his first solo hunt in months.

He’s worried about leaving Sam alone, but he can’t tell Sam that because Sam will be pissed and embarrassed and Dean really can’t handle another fucking DTR right now. Sam’s been doing much better. The dark circles under his eyes have lessened considerably and he hasn’t attempted to hurt himself. Dean sees him eat at least three times a day, every day. Sure, it’s only those avocados, spinach, egg whites, almonds, and a few other approved, über-healthy foodstuffs. And sure, Dean suspects that Sam’s gone vegetarian,- _ugh, why god why?-_ exercises way too much, and has traded anorexia for orthorexia- _thanks, WebMD!-_  But goddammit, it’s better than him not eating _anything._ Right?  

Plus, this lead is solid, it’s about some of Abaddon’s lackeys planning to stir shit up on the East Coast, and maybe if Dean kills enough of them then the Queen Bitch herself will show and he can end her once and for all.

_How are you gonna do that without-?_

Somehow. Just- _somehow,_ dammit. He’s Dean Winchester. He always finds a way.

**_Yeah, a way to fuck things up even worse. Dean, Dean, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, a braindead squirrel probably could!_ **

_Okay, well that doesn’t even **rhyme,** dumbass._

Clearly he has to get out of here. He’s going stir-crazy. And he can _feel_ the presence of his- of _that_ fucking Blade. It lurks in the corners of his mind, weighs on his soul. It taunts and tempts him without words. He has nightmares where he does terrible things and enjoys them. Some nights he wakes up so afraid that he’s going to run to the communal bathroom and pick it up, give in, just to make it _shut up._  

Sam brings him back every time. His brother’s face, finally smiling and laughing. Leaning his thin, overgrown frame against the kitchen counter, eating those sandwiches-

He has to stop Abaddon, Crowley, too, and close Hell. For Sam. For everyone he’s screwed over in the suicidal quest that is his life. Kevin, Bobby, Cas, Lisa, Ben, Linda, Benny, Ellen, Jo, Rufus, Pam, Ash- and the list goes on and on. He remembers their names, sees their faces when he tries to sleep at night. _You can’t save everyone,_ Cas had told him reassuringly. Bullshit. Dean should be able to. He just has to be better. Why can’t he be better?

He leaves for Maine at four a.m. on a Tuesday. Sam’s still asleep, but he’d set the coffee maker to automatic brew the night before when Dean had forgotten in his haste to get at least four hours of sleep. Dean is enormously grateful for the gesture. He makes the drive in thirty hours, only stopping to eat, heed the call of nature, and take a few power naps along the way. The demons are there, they’re foolhardy enough to attack him in his motel room the second night he’s in Warren, but their leader isn’t and she doesn’t show up even when Dean brutally slaughters her lieutenants. As he uses Ruby’s knife to paint the walls with the blood of the demon’s unfortunate hosts he feels the joy of destruction surge. It’s a warmth glowing in his heart and his head. He is judge, jury, and executioner. He is an instrument of Death himself. He is, he is-

_**Call to me, Dean. Call to me, and I will answer. I will come to you, for I am you and I am yours.** _

Five demons still surround him, circling wolves around a wounded caribou. But _he_ is the wolf, don’t they know? He’s burning alive, and oh, how he loves the heat. A word- a _name-_ in some ancient, infernal tongue swims in his mind and he grasps for it. It’s just on the tip of his tongue. He is- _They_ are-

A memory- no, much more vivid than a memory, but he has nothing else to call it- overtakes his senses.

**_(We are crouched over the Chosen and he is vulnerable and we will take him and we will mold him. He may scream and he may weep, but he will submit to our power. Is this pleasing to the Body? It should be pleasing to the Body, but-_ **

_No, no! Fucking stop it, oh god, don’t you fucking touch him! Don’t make me-_

_**We are together, united Body and Mind, we are one. Why does the Body fight the Mind?-** _

_Please, no. Please! Oh fuck, please-_

_**The Body begs? The Body does not beg easily-** _

_I’ll do anything- anything-_

_**But how was the unity lost?-** _  

_He needs me, let me go!-_

_**The Chosen- the Beloved brother? I have made him yours, why are you unhappy?-** _  

_He’s in pain, he needs me, please. Let me go!-_

_**Go, then. I will wait for your return. I am always yours, and you will love me in time.)** _

Dean comes to himself, standing by the window in the dingy motel room. The stiff curtains have been shredded. The grimy walls and their garish nautical theme are coated in gore. Broken furniture and eviscerated bodies are strewn everywhere. All eight of his attackers are dead, and he can’t even remember killing most of them. The Blade had communicated with him, moved through him, from almost two thousand miles away. That should scare him more than it does. _Eight demons-_ Dean barely registers how lucky he is to be alive before he’s dropping the Knife, bending over, and vomiting up his road fare. The homogenous remnants of a breakfast burrito, quarter pounder with cheese, large fries, and what feels like ten gallons of coffee are added to the wreckage on the floor. He can see the glowing Mark on his arm fading as he brings his arms to clutch at his suddenly empty stomach.

He remembers. He remembers-

_Oh god._

The way Sam screamed- the smell of the blood- the way Sam _felt-_

_Oh god, just kill yourself you piece of shit! You worthless piece of- you stupid fucking rapist!_

He’d wanted to remember. Like the moron he is, he’d thought it would be better if he knew. And now he does. He knows everything. How clean Sam had smelled. How his skin had still been damp, his wet hair slicked back. How soft and supple his brother’s genitals had been in his hand. How much pressure it had taken, once they’d been severed, to flatten them with his booted heel. He knows how Sam’s body felt, struggling underneath him. How it had hurt to push his way inside, but how he’d done it anyway, because it was not done for the pleasure, it was done for the power. How the power was its own pleasure.

He’s acutely aware of the weight of the ivory gripped .45 at his belt, and it would be so easy. Draw it, point it at his temple, pull the trigger. So easy. He’d just be doing his job.

Dean Winchester kills monsters, after all.

_It wasn’t you. That thing **used** you! Weren’t you paying attention? You were begging it to stop. You made it let you go- _

Dean pushes away the snarl of memories, the horror and guilt and pain that accompany them. He’ll deal with it all later. He doesn’t want to think at the moment.

He has to leave. He’s sure the battle royale was loud enough to catch someone’s attention. He needs to get out of here before the cops show up. His body moves so slowly, though. Like the time that man-witch had made him fifty years older, but even worse. It’s like- it’s like his body isn’t _his._

_It **ain’t** yours. Not anymore. Pathetic. You wouldn’t let Michael in, but you give it up for a demonic power on the first date? You whore._

The more Dean moves, the more his faculties return to him. By the time he’s tossed his meager possessions into the well-worn duffel bag walking is no longer a hike through a tar pit. Before he goes out the door he leaves a hundred dollar bill for a tip on the bedside table, the only part of the room that managed to escape unscathed. It’s ridiculous, inane, he knows, but he feels bad.

_Look at this fucking mess, won’t the cleaning ladies **love** you?_  

As he’s peeling out of the parking lot, he starts to pray.

* * *

Dean doesn’t pray every night like he used to, but he’s been praying a lot in the last few months. He’s had no one to talk to, and on bad days a one-sided conversation seems better than nothing. Even with Sam talking to him again, there are some things he can’t share with his brother. Things he knows he has no right to ask Sam to listen to. He mostly talks to Cas, but sometimes he talks to God, even though he knows God doesn’t care. And sometimes- sometimes he talks to something else entirely. He curses and threatens it, the thing he hates most in the entirety of creation. It’s perverse, but at least he knows the Blade is listening.

This time he’s talking to Cas, because he needs to talk so that he doesn’t dwell on that memory, and he needs someone to care. He knows that if the angel- _ex-angel?-_ can hear him, he’ll care. The Impala purrs down the I-295 and Dean speaks softly into the empty car.

“Don’t know if you can hear me, Cas, 's been a while, but uh, if you can and you still got, I don’t know, your angel stuff goin’, um-”

If he stares straight ahead at the oncoming asphalt flying at him through the morning fog he can almost pretend that Cas is sitting next to him, listening attentively. Cas always listens, no matter how inelegantly Dean expresses himself. Yeah, he can pretend Cas is riding shotgun while Sam is napping in the backseat, spread out as best as his gargantuan body will allow. And Cas is still an angel, so he’s already helped fix Dean’s fuck-up and Sam is whole and happy and loves Dean again-

“Oh god, Cas, it’s real bad and I don’t know how to fix it. Thought I could, but I _can’t_ and- and I need you to come back Cas. Please come back.”

Fuck, if he’s imagining a better world with unicorns and gumdrops and sparkle paint he might as well go all out. He and Sam and Cas are driving back to the Bunker where they live with Kevin and Linda and Jody and Charlie. The more the merrier; Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Rufus, Benny- everyone from that list of people that replays in his head. And Jess is there, too, waiting for Sam, and Dean can apologize for being such a creep when he met her and for getting her killed and he can watch Sam being happy with the woman he loves while his heart swells with big-brother pride-

_Okay, Cinderella, you done wishin’ on stars and dreams and fairies? Get your head out of your vagina, Winchester._  

“Cas, I- well, I already told you about the Mark and the Blade and what I did to Sam, but now I _remember_ it. I remember doin’ it and I can’t- I don’t think I can live with it. With knowing what I did- what it made me do, whatever, and I thought you could, maybe, relate? I thought we could, you know, _talk._ ‘Cause- well, just _‘cause,_ okay Cas?”

If Cas isn’t fully angel anymore, if he’s unable to fight or to heal, Dean still wants him to come back. For whatever reason, Cas chose him and Sam, continues to choose them, and he chooses to take care of them. Dean’s never really had someone like that. Growing up, with his mother dead, his father treated him more as a surrogate mother for Sam than as a kid in his own right. Dean knows how to take care of others, especially Sam, but being taken care of? He’s not so good at that. He doesn’t think he deserves it, but sometimes he desperately needs it. He needs Cas to hear, to advise. He needs to talk about this and he can’t talk to Sam because he has no right to ask Sam to listen to Dean’s trauma over the incident when Sam’s trauma is so much worse. Much more well-deserved.

_Your pain’s not irrelevant, Dean._ He can almost hear Cas’ voice in his head. _How can you take care of anyone if you won’t take care of yourself?_

_**Yeah, well, look who’s talking, Cas.** _

Masterfully deflected, if he says so himself. Except-

_Whose fault is that? Cas was fine 'til he met you. Good job, Winchester, you **broke** a motherfucking **angel-**_

Shit, now he’s thinking and he can’t shut it off. He switches on the radio, scanning between stations, but he soon tunes out the static and snatches of pop songs. His prayer is abandoned, his thoughts a jumble. He’s suddenly angry, and whether the anger’s justified or not, it makes him uncomfortable. 

He’s angry at John for leaving him. For making Dean take his place when he never fully prepared him for the job. For telling Dean he might have to kill his brother, after twenty-six years of drilling the exact opposite into his eldest son’s head. Fuck, he’s angry at his mom. For making that deal with Azazel. For not remembering to stay out of the nursery that night in November, even though that was Michael’s doing.

He’s angry at Cas. For always leaving, and yeah, okay, he comes back eventually but- why can’t he just _stay?_ Why does he think he has to deal with shit all on his own? That he can’t rely on Dean to help him? And then he ends up doing things like beating the shit out of Dean, mind-controlled or not. That angel, Naomi, had implied that had been Cas’ own interpretation of her orders. Dean’s pretty sure he can’t trust her, but then he remembers how she’d told him the truth about everything else. How she’d saved Bobby’s soul from Crowley and gave him the information that saved Sam’s life. He feels like he owes her the benefit of the doubt.

And Cas’ first betrayal still hurts. The way he’d laid Sam out like it was _nothing._ And Sam, forgiving Cas like it was nothing-

Fuck, he’s angriest with Sam.

_Remember what you did with the demon blood, Sammy? Remember Ruby? Remember Lucifer? How many times have you been possessed? You think you’d be more sympathetic-_

**_Who are you gonna turn to next time instead of me? Another angel, another- another vampire?_ **

_Right, ‘cause you? You get to be free whenever you want to be, go have friends and a life. But me? I ain’t allowed to have friends. I gotta sit around like a good little housewife and clean up your messes and be there for you, and only you, when you decide you’re sick of whatever the newest kick is and need to come home to have me patch you up._  

Someone on the radio is singing about how it’s gonna be the best day of his life before the station changes to roaring static. Dean’s suddenly aware of how warm it is in the Impala and he looks fearfully down at his forearm but the Mark isn’t acting up. Dean breathes out slowly and tamps down his anger. It’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, but he’s got it under control. He doesn’t really think he deserves it. Hell, most of the stuff he’s angry about, he’s done himself.

_That doesn’t mean you can’t be angry about it._

No, he can be angry about it. He's just pretty sure that the person he's angriest with is actually himself and- and okay, sharing and caring time with himself is officially over. Dean’s hands clench around the steering wheel. He needs to stop thinking about himself; He can deal with his baggage after he’s fixed the bigger problems in his life. “Have a Drink On Me” crackles over the speakers and Dean punches the button to stop scanning. He drums his fingers on the wheel and cracks a smile he knows looks phony as hell. Good thing no one’s there to see it. 

He focuses on Sam as he drives. He will make Sam happy again. Anything Sam wants, needs, _anything-_ Dean will do it. It's distraction, it's avoidance, but-

Anything.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the two month delay. I've had to rework this chapter a few times. Thanks for your patience.

* * *

 

_“Wait, you don’t want kids? Ever?”_

_Sam’s surprised by the flippancy with which Amelia had dismissed the idea. He can’t even recall how they’d got on the subject- no, wait, it was because she’d had to take a moment after they’d started shedding clothes to remember whether or not she’d had her birth control pill that morning. She’d concluded that she had and their foreplay had commenced. Later, as they held each other in their afterglow, she’d made her comment._

_“Why, you do?”_

_She’s looking at him incredulously. Sam thinks for a moment before he answers._

_“Well, someday. Yeah.”_

_Amelia grins sheepishly before burying her pretty face in her hands to stifle her embarrassed laughter._

_“Oh god, I’m sorry, I just assumed-”_

_“Why would you assume I didn’t want kids?”_

_Sam’s not accusatory, he’s genuinely curious._

_“It’s just- we’re both so fucked up, and- and I don’t want kids ‘cause I don’t want to fuck up another human being like that.”_

_“That’s fair.”_

_Sam’s tone is light, but he feels slightly hurt by her assumption. He also feels guilty for entertaining the notion of having children when Amelia’s absolutely right. She doesn’t even know the half of how fucked up he is, but she’s absolutely right. He really shouldn’t be passing on the Winchester genes, and their cursed legacy along with them. With a little self-control, a little unselfishness on his part, he could end the last of the archangel threat. Even if Lucifer and Michael managed to escape, there’d be no “perfect vessels” for them to throw-down in. Sam’s the last of the line now, with Dean gone. Unless Ben really was Dean’s son after all, but they’re probably all better off not knowing that-_

_“Hey,” Amelia punches him lightly on the arm. “Whatcha thinking about?”_

_“Nothin’,” Sam lies with an easy smile. “Just starting to get hungry.”_

_Riot barks from outside the bedroom door. Amelia laughs._

_“Sounds like the feeling’s mutual. And I could use a snack myself.”_

_She rises from the bed and wraps a thin silk robe around her small frame. Sam watches her. She’s so beautiful; lean yet soft. One of the toughest people he’s ever met. A sharp tongue with a gentle heart. She ogles him blatantly as he stands, covering his nakedness with a pair of worn sweatpants._

_“What?” Sam asks her, pretending to be confused by her staring._

_“Oh nothing, just enjoying my daily reminder of how insanely lucky I am. How the hell did I manage to land someone like you?”_

_“I’m damaged goods, remember?” Sam pulls her into a hug by the door. Amelia buries her face in his chest. “And I’m pretty sure the lucky one here is me-”_

“Hold please!”

The soft lighting of their bedroom is harshly illuminated by a flood of fluorescents streaming down from overhead. Sam looks up in confusion, attempting to shield his eyes with his hand. The bedroom ceiling is gone, a patchwork of metal supports in its place. He’s staring into the canopy of what looks like a theatre. Stage lights hang scattered among the beams and catwalks and the houselights have come up. Amelia has pulled away from him and sits relaxed on the edge of their bed, slender legs crossed at the ankles, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. Sam turns, utterly bewildered, to her.

“What the-?”

“Quiet please!”

He recognizes the voice, all sweetness and sadism, and he’s automatically stepping in front of Amelia to shield her with his body. Their bedroom only has three walls- how did he not notice that before? He can see Abaddon and Lucifer sitting side-by-side out in the center front row of the auditorium. Lucifer looks like Sam if the youngest Winchester were a beatnik poet. Black turtleneck sweater, tight black pants, black beret. Single silver ring in his left ear, dark glasses, and a well-trimmed goatee. Sam can almost hear Dean’s reaction to the ensemble- “What a _douchebag.”_

Lucifer is twiddling a yellow pencil between Sam’s ringed fingers as he peers at the pages contained in the thick binder resting in his lap. Abaddon is wearing Josie Sands dressed in her familiar black military-chic, leather jacket slung over the seat next to her. She has a similar binder in her hands and she’s regarding Sam with her red lips curled up into her trademark smirk. Her legs are extended and her combat-booted feet are resting on a figure crouched naked and bleeding on the floor before her. It takes Sam a moment to recognize Crowley.

“Amelia, run!”

Sam hears no movement behind him to indicate that Amelia has obeyed his missive. Abaddon cocks her head at him with confused annoyance before she speaks again.

“What the hell is wrong with you today, Winchester? Hold. The Director wants you to stand still and shut your pretty face while he figures out what this scene’s missing. Is that too difficult for you?”

“I- what?”

Abaddon rolls heavily shadowed eyes at him.

“Your Director,” She speaks as if she’s explaining something to a dim-witted toddler and claps a hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. “Has directed me, your Stage Manager,” She places a hand over her heart. “To tell you to shut the hell up while he figures out how to make this boring-ass scene work. Capisce?”

The doors at the top of the auditorium open and Sam’s heart lurches when he sees Ruby and Meg hurrying down the steps. Each carry two large Starbucks cups. Ruby hands one to Abaddon, Meg to Lucifer, who sets it aside as he continues to peruse what Sam now realizes is a script.

Clearly he’s dreaming. Why doesn’t he feel more relieved by the revelation?

“Lilith said to tell you that she had to go to the bathroom,” Ruby informs Abaddon before taking a sip from her coffee.

“Whatever,” Abaddon sighs, flipping crimson bangs off her forehead to rub at her temples. “This is taking forever and Winchester’s giving me a headache.”

Crowley mutters something from the floor. Abaddon digs her heels deeper into his back, making him yelp before he shuts up.

“The furniture should be seen and not heard. Meg, gimme a back rub.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Meg moves into the row of seating directly behind Abaddon and kneads her palms into the Knight’s shoulders. Ruby sits to Abaddon’s left and makes kissy noises at the stage. Sam thinks she’s addressing him at first, but to his relief it turns out to be directed at Riot. The dog bounds over to the dark-haired demon, who kneels on the carpet and allows the animal to lick her face a few times before he flips over on his back, wiggling in excitement with his front paws curved against his chest. Ruby scratches his belly, cooing softly.

Sam has no idea where this particular dream came from, but he’d really like it to end now.

“I’ve got it,” Lucifer’s voice has a pretentious quality that makes Sam want to punch him. In his own face. Lucifer looks up from the script. “Amelia, take five okay?”

“Sure thing. I’m gonna go have a smoke.”

Amelia exits stage left through the door of their bedroom set. Abaddon watches her go with jealousy.

“Fuck, a smoke sounds amazing right about now,” she grouses. Meg rubs her back soothingly.

Lucifer ignores Abaddon, standing and placing the script on his abandoned seat. He leaps up on the stage and approaches Sam, who wishes his feet would cooperate with his desire to exit stage left, right, wherever. But he’s frozen in place, deer in the headlights of the bright Morning Star.

“If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Hmm, Sam?”

Lucifer circles him like a predator, Sam’s own gleaming hazel eyes leering at his state of undress. Sam defiantly meets his gaze, but he can suddenly remember those eyes in various forms, staring at him with amused malice as they molested his soul in the Cage, and he trembles. Lucifer reaches out one of Sam’s hands to caress Sam’s chest, kneading roughly into the firm flesh. His broad arm is rippling, shifting into something smaller and smoother. The Devil no longer looks like Sam. Now he looks like Jessica Moore.

“No. Don’t. Not her.”

Lucifer reaches up to his beret, tosses it away as he shakes out Jess’ long blond hair. He makes Jess’ soft hands run their way down Sam’s sides. Her fingers hook into the elastic of Sam’s waistband and pull the faded grey fabric down until the pants fall from his hips to pool around his feet. Sam doesn’t have to look down to know that his genitals are gone. The vicious smile, so incongruous on Jess’ kind, beautiful face as it stares, is all the confirmation he needs.

“Let’s take it from the top,” Lucifer whispers in Jess’ sultry voice. “Once more, with feeling.”

“Stop. Please.”

Jess’ fingers dance over the emptiness between his legs and he can’t help looking. His pubic hair has disappeared and he’s forced to look at the scars.

“There’s something different about you Sam,” Lucifer mocks. “I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”

He giggles girlishly, right index finger caressing the indentation where Sam’s cock used to be. Sam feels a tear slip down his cheek.

If only it didn’t feel so good.

“Hey, baby, shhh. Don’t cry. There’s other stuff we can do. You’ve still got your fingers and your tongue, you’re not totally useless to me. And maybe now I won’t have to fake it every fucking time.”

More tears escape as Jess’ finger tickles and probes. Her other hand sinks lower, stroking the line of his perineum, normally masked by his thick hair but so much longer looking now that he has nothing to hide it. Her manicured nails circle the scar where his balls had once hung. Sam flushes and groans as he starts to move his hips, pressing what little he has against the Devil disguised as the dead love of his life. He can’t remember how long it’s been since his body discharged and the goddamn lust brought on by the hormone injections surges through his brain and his groin. He doesn’t want this, but he needs it.

“Not her,” Sam repeats desperately as he grinds, staring at his mutilated groin and Jess’ hands. “Anyone but her.”

“Anyone?” Lucifer asks innocently.

“Anyone.”

Sam knows he’s making a mistake, that Lucifer will somehow make this even worse for him, but he’s adamant that it not be Jess that violates him. Not her.

“Whatever you say, little brother.”

Dean’s voice, and Dean’s face when Sam looks up from Jess’ fingers. Dean’s hands, too, when he looks back down. Not possessed by the Mark, just Dean dressed in Lucifer’s tight, black clothes. Sam can’t decide whether this is better or worse, but he cries openly. He still can’t move anything other than his head and his hips.

“Oh, stop bein’ such a fuckin’ crybaby, Sammy. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Sam shakes his head, no, no, no, but he’s groaning softly as desire swells in his belly. This is so fucked-up. So completely wrong. And it still feels so fucking good.

“You know, Sam,” Dean’s voice, but Lucifer’s intent. “You could have everything you want. Everything you were. More. Just come back to me. Just let me back in.”

_No._

Is what Sam thinks.

“How?”

Is what Sam says.

“There are ways,” Lucifer says cryptically, Dean’s fingers still playing with Sam as the younger Winchester approaches climax. “There are ways to get me out.”

_No! No! No!_

“Tell me, please.”

Dean’s fingers stop, and Sam gives a strangled scream of frustration. He’d been so close! So close- He tries to move his hips, but he finds them locked in place with the rest of his body. Lucifer kisses him, Dean’s surprisingly soft lips briefly covering Sam’s before he pulls away.

“In time.”

“No, please-!” Sam yells as his bizarre dream dissolves around him. He can hear the laughter of Abaddon, Meg, Ruby, and Crowley echoing in his ears. Even Riot gives a few barks. And, loudest of all, Lucifer chuckling with Dean’s voice.

“In time, Beloved brother.”

* * *

Sam wakes up sprawled face-down on his bed, desperately humping his mattress. He’s still so close, he can feel it. He doesn’t dwell on the dream, the reason he’s so turned on. How his body responds to Lucifer. How it had seemed to respond to Dean.

His attempts are futile, just as they always are. As they’ve been for the past four months since he lost his cock. The startlingly erotic dreams he’s had about Lucifer since the incident usually manage to bring him some sort of release- _and don’t fucking dwell on that_ \- but this time there’s nothing. Now that he’s out of his dream world he feels the urgency fading, settling into a dull, throbbing ache in his abdomen. He stills his hips and pants from his wasted efforts, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his pillow. He chuckles wryly as he exhales loudly and brushes the damp hair from his eyes. Only Sam fucking Winchester could manage to get blue balls after being castrated.

He’s feeling sorry for himself, and he has to stop. He can’t go down that road, not again. He might never come back if he does.

_Time to get up._

Sam pulls on his running clothes, grabs his iPod, and leaves the room. He’s been running at least twice a day lately, sometimes more. It’s the only time he can get out of his head. Heart pounding, music blaring, no thinking. And the longer he goes, the greater the lingering endorphin rush afterward. Sam wishes he could spend his whole day running, but he doesn’t have the energy for that. He really doesn’t have the energy for the amount of exercise he does already. He’s determined to keep going, though. He has to. He focuses on the daily regimen, one day at a time. Wake up, run, shower, breakfast, weights, light snack, research if applicable, maybe nap or run again, shower again, lunch, weights again, snack, read, run again, shower again, dinner, downtime, bed. Rinse and repeat. It’s easier that way. Thinking too hard about the future sends him spiraling into depression, and he’s spent way too much time holed up in his room, in his bed, with the sheets pulled over his head. No more of that.

 _This isn’t healthy!_ His voice of reason, irritating in its accuracy, screams at him.  _You can’t go on like this, something’s gonna give._                              

But that sounds like a problem for the Sam of tomorrow (and tomorrow and tomorrow). The Sam of today doesn’t think about that Sam. He can’t. Vicious cycle, rinse and repeat. He’s outside the bunker now, the cool morning air perfectly engulfing his overheated skin.  

At least he has Dean again, as fucking pathetic as that makes him feel. He doesn’t think he’s forgiven his brother- for exactly what he’s not even sure- but he’d missed him. He’d needed him. How could he not? It’s another vicious cycle. They’ve been wrapped up in each other for so long and neither are strong enough to break free. Dean doesn’t want to, and Sam has to admit to himself that he doesn’t either. It’s easier this way. It’s all he’s ever known. _Pathetic._

_**No, human.** _

_Same difference._

It profoundly disturbs him when his internal monologue starts sounding like Lucifer. _MFEO. Literally,_ the devil- his tormentor, his captor, his rapist- had told him. Sam shudders. He punches the play button on his iPod’s touchscreen a little too forcefully, stows the device in his pocket as the alternative rock that Dean would despise pounds in his eardrums, and starts running.

* * *

Dean had been different after he came back from Maine. It was late and Sam had been awake, reading in the war room, when his brother returned. Sam had greeted him warmly, but Dean barely acknowledged him before he was tromping off to bed. That had stung. Sam knew that he was being a little unfair, he had done the same thing to Dean for the past few months, but, come on, extremely extenuating circumstances on Sam’s part. And Dean had been the one to try and instigate a reconciliation, was he trying to punish Sam now that he knew Sam wanted it as badly as Dean? The next morning Dean had been as attentive as ever and Sam shrugged off his concern.

But then it happens again after Dean’s next solo hunt. And again after the next. There’s something obviously weighing on his brother and it’s not the usual list of suspects. There’s a darkness growing behind his eyes that terrifies Sam. Not for himself- he has to believe Dean won’t hurt him like that again, _can’t_ hurt him like that again without the First Blade in his hand- but for Dean. Is the Mark punishing him for refusing to go along with it? Is this some sort of demonic withdrawal? Sam’s got experience with that, after all.

And here we go again.  _Don’t deal with your own shit, just focus on Dean._

(Now who’s the hypocrite?)

* * *

Five months after the bathroom, Sam goes on a hunt with his brother. He hasn’t let all of his hunting skills get rusty; he’s been helping Dean with research on Abaddon and Gadreel. It’s gotten to the point where he can even say Gadreel’s name without reflexively twitching, even if visions of Kevin’s screaming face and burnt out eyes sometimes flash in his mind. Cas is presumably out hunting him down, even if the Winchesters haven’t heard from their friend in an unsettling amount of time, and it’s good that someone’s on the case because all of Sam’s research has yielded zero results. Same with the Queen of Hell. Also, where the fuck has Crowley got to? It’s been a bit too quiet on both the demonic and angelic fronts. And why is that so much more frightening than the alternative of an all-out supernatural war?

The case that Dean finds is a good old-fashioned monster hunt. A shapeshifter has been going on a murder spree near Alliance, Nebraska. Dean’s planning on going alone, but Sam surprises both his brother and himself by offering to join him.

“You sure, Sam?”

Dean’s tone holds far too much concern for Sam’s liking.

“I offered, didn’t I?”

His retort is angrier than he intended but Dean lets it slide.

“Okay, but just so you know, since we’re going to Alliance we _will_ be going to Carhenge.”

Dean’s barely contained glee warms Sam’s heart. He hides it with exaggerated incredulity.

“Seriously, Dean? Haven’t you been there like, I don’t know, ten times already?”

“Only four. Not nearly enough.”

“You know that means that I’ve been there four times, too, right? I think I’m over it.”

“You should learn to appreciate beautiful things, Sam. That is fucking art, okay?”

“Ah, yes, I’ve seen your idea of art. Naked women and cars. Often at the same time.”

“God bless America,” Dean smirks and puts a hand over his heart in mock solemnity. Sam rolls his eyes. He knows he’ll end up viewing Carhenge for a fifth time. Dean’s enthusiasm is infectious. Sam can’t begrudge him. Sam had been allowed a childhood. Dean’s childhood had ended when he was four years old, and Sam’s childhood had come at Dean’s expense. Which isn’t Sam’s fault, but he sometimes wishes he did a better job of remembering that.

* * *

They arrive in Alliance around 9 pm. The motel they check into is car themed, naturally. Dean hangs back and lets Sam book the room. Sam’s grateful. He’s been worrying about the sleeping arrangements throughout the six hour car ride from Lebanon. Was he really ready to sleep in such close proximity to Dean? How badly would it hurt Dean if Sam asked that they get separate rooms? He doesn’t come to a decision until the sleepy-eyed night clerk is asking “What’ll it be, darlin’?” He stammers out his answer, "One room, two beds, first floor if you can?" Dean is standing behind him, but Sam can almost feel his brother’s relieved smile boring into his back. The clerk hands Sam two keys, he thanks her, and then they’re walking through the lobby towards the hallway to their room.

He falls into step behind Dean, if only to keep his eyes on him, as wrong as that makes him feel. _It can be like it was before,_ Sam tells himself.  _Before Cain, Gadreel, Abaddon, Crowley, Michael, Lucifer, Ruby. Before the Apocalypse. Before you died the first time._ The source of their problems, not their father, not Yellow Eyes, but when Dean had dragged Sam back from the light. He would have been in Heaven. He could be there right now, if only-

_You can’t know that._

But he’s pretty sure that he does. As sure as he is that he’ll never be there again.

Sam takes the bed closest to the door and carefully tacks up an extra sheet over the bathroom mirror, staunchly willing himself not to look into his reflection like it’s as volatile as Indiana Jones’ face-melting Ark of the Covenant. Dean doesn’t say a word about Sam’s strange ritual, just asks if Sam wants to walk down to the local bar for a beer. Sam declines. He’s tired and he doesn’t think he can handle a crowd of drunk, randy people. He doesn’t want to handle them. Especially since he’s just as fucking randy, but he can’t- won’t- do anything about it. He’d rather go for a run.

“Y’know where I’ll be if you change your mind,” Dean shrugs nonchalantly.

After Dean leaves, conscientiously locking up behind him, Sam sits on his bed for almost fifteen minutes. He’s frozen, staring at the cracked melamine door. He wants to get up, throw on his sweatpants, find a jogging route, but he can’t seem to make himself move. He’s so tired, and skipping one day won’t hurt, right? Ignoring the panicked inner voice that tells him _of course it will hurt!,_ Sam stands as if in slow-motion. He shuts off all the lights, draws the curtains. Stripping down to his boxers, he collapses on the bed and falls right to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should totally Google "Carhenge" though


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

_Al’s Bar_ is a four minute walk from the motel and it’s just past ten o’clock when Dean starts on his fourth beer. _Al’s_ is a dive in every sense of the word. There’s about twenty other patrons, all locals from the look and sound of them, gathered in groups of two or three sitting in booths or on stools at the bar. Dean’s clearly an outsider and they give him wide berth in his back-corner booth. That’s more than alright with him; Dean’s here to get shitfaced, not make friends.

He looks over at a woman by the dilapidated jukebox. She’s bent over, peering at the song selections through the grimy glass cover. Dean’s idly admiring her waist-to-hip ratio when he’s hit with the image of the woman dead on the linoleum floor, jeans and tight T-shirt soaked with blood, neck twisted so that her face gapes up at him in shock. Because he’s standing over her, dripping Blade in hand, Mark glowing with glorious heat, and he feels so complete-

Dean shakes his head and the vision clears. ZZ Top’s “Legs” starts to play over the speaker as the woman stands up from the machine, notices Dean staring, and shoots him a dirty look before making her way back to her seat with another woman at the bar.

 _You deserved that, ya creeper,_ he tells himself.

He’s been having these fantasies at an alarming frequency. Ever since Maine. It had started off innocuously, he’d play the game of “How would I survive if everyone here was a monster?” He’d fight and kill his way out of crowded supermarkets inexplicably populated by murderous werewolves; decimate the zombified patrons in motel lobbies during the Continental breakfast. No big deal, an old hunter’s game he’d played with Sam when they were younger. Except then the game evolved into something more sinister. The people weren’t monsters trying to kill him, they were regular people. Then they weren’t even trying to kill him. Those were civilians he was butchering in his imagination, in increasingly gruesome ways. The fact that they were civilians had made the game better somehow, and eventually the only weapon he comes to be killing those civilians with is Cain’s Blade. It croons encouragement in his ear and the Mark’s heat warms him. Fictional or not, it disgusts him. It also excites him. It _arouses_ him-

Dean feels his cock twitch against his thigh, the lust swells in his belly, and he desperately tamps it down. Containing his lust is a difficult endeavor lately. Not that he’s ever been too good at the whole self-control thing, but ever since he- ever since what he did to Sam he’s tried to refrain from sex of any kind. He’s failed, of course, but done nothing more than furiously jerk himself off in the shower or his bedroom. No enjoyment, just desperate need and soul-crushing guilt. That’s all he gets, and far more than he thinks he deserves. He doesn’t get to enjoy it, he tells himself, not when Sam never gets to again.

He drains the beer in his hand with a single swig, catches the bartender’s eye, and gestures with the empty bottle. A few minutes later the tired-looking waitress makes her way to his booth and switches the old bottle for a full one. Dean starts on it immediately.

_The bartender’s beefy, but he’s no match for you. He’s pushing fifty and clearly gone to seed, look at that gut. He needs to lose a few pounds, you could help him with that, empty those guts a little. Those two guys at the bar, just knock their heads together, keep knockin’ ‘til you see the gooey candy center. That woman who glared at you- make her pay for that. Make her watch as you kill her girlfriend and gouge her eyes out after. The waitress, she’s chicken-bone skinny you could snap her neck like a twig. Hell, you could just snap her spine in half-_

Fuck, fuck, fuck this is not him. He is not this.

_Yes you are._

He can feel his blood pumping, coursing through him. Fueling his heart and his sinew, throbbing in his balls and his brain. Its heat scorches his insides. He loves it.

**_Call to me._ **

He needs to get out of here. He can’t be around people right now. He can’t take the risk that his macabre fantasies will become reality. That somehow, some way, the Mark will activate and the Blade will find him and he’ll be dragged along for the ride. Forced to wake up in the bloody aftermath of his weakness, see the remains of the people he’s sacrificed for his own worthless life-

Dean abandons his half-empty beer on the table, closes his tab at the bar, and leaves _Al’s._ He barely feels a buzz and he wonders if he can risk grabbing something from a liquor store- but where would he drink it? Back at the motel, with Sam? Not a good idea. Sam’s finally started to trust him again, no way in hell is he going to fuck that up. Sam always gets twitchy when Dean drinks too much, now more than ever. God, he’s fucked that kid up so bad. He thinks about Sam’s refusal to look at his own reflection. The way he’d hung sheets and towels over every mirror in the Bunker. The way he’d done it in the motel bathroom.

_You did that. That’s your fault._

He takes a few gulps of night air, trying to calm his heart. Once it slows to a manageable pace he walks slowly down the dark street in the opposite direction from the motel. He isn’t ready to go back yet. He needs to get himself together before he’s around Sam again. He’s so grateful that Sam is willing to try and work a case with him, even sleep in the same room with him. It’s more than he deserves. He’s not going to blow this.

_You’ll find a way to make things worse. It’s what you do best._

_Stop being such a whiny bitch,_ he scoffs at himself. He keeps walking, trying to clear his mind, and hums snatches of “Sad But True” and “Master of Puppets” to himself in a bizarre, non-sequitur remix whenever intruding thoughts claw their way to the surface.

_Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams. Do my dirty work, scapegoat._

_**Sad but true,**_ a little voice smirks and he doesn’t know if it belongs to him or not. He walks faster, trying to leave it behind.

*

Dean’s been stone cold sober for hours and has long since exhausted his mental Metallica playlist when he stumbles back into the motel room at 3:03 am, sending up empty prayers to any god or angel that might be listening that Sam won’t hear him come in and wake up.

Neither gods nor angels seem to be in a charitable mood, however, because as Dean closes the door behind him as gently as possible and shrugs out of his jacket he hears a soft noise from his brother’s bed. He freezes immediately, facing the door, hoping that if he _has_ woken Sam then his brother will roll over and go right back to sleep. The hope proves futile; Dean hears the same noise again. Louder. Longer. It almost sounds like-

Dean turns when he recognizes the sound of Sam sobbing and he’s at Sam’s side before he even registers his feet moving. It’s instinctive. He kneels by the head of the bed and too late the rational part of his brain screams at him _not to touch Sam;_ his hands are already on his brother’s shoulders.

The light from the street lamps outside pierces through the cheap window blinds to give the dark room a dusky glow and Dean can see everything. The scene unfolds as if in slow motion. Like _Matrix-_ style bullet time- _and that thought dredges up a memory of sitting sandwiched between a wide-eyed, seventeen-year old Sammy and an indulgent John in a dark movie theatre, passing a greasy bucket of popcorn back and forth as freedom fighters in black leather blazed their way through a virtual world. That would have been a year or so before Sam left for Stanford and it all went to shit-_

His hands are on Sam’s bare shoulders, shaking him softly to bring him out of the dream that’s causing him so much pain, and Sam’s head is turning from where it’s buried in the pillow, turning to Dean with eyes fluttering open through streaming tears and mouth open around a moan. The moan is incongruous with the tears, Dean realizes. The moan sounds like Sam’s in the throes of passion, and now Dean can tell that Sam’s lower body is moving sinuously underneath the comforter. He’s grinding himself against the mattress, humping the bed as he sobs and moans. Dean is shocked into inaction as conflicting thoughts and desires race through his mind. He wants to comfort Sam; he wants to get as fucking far away from this situation as he possibly can. Stay. Run. To his horror, he feels blood rushing to his groin; the noises his brother is making are stiffening his cock. Fuck, fuck, _fuck no-_

**_Yes. Oh, yes._ **

“Dean.”

Sam’s eyes are open, registering Dean’s presence. His tears are drying and he repeats Dean’s name slowly as the brothers stare at each other. The bullet time in Dean’s head abruptly shifts to real time, maybe even faster, when Sam propels himself off the bed, blankets sliding from his body and arms clutching at the back of Dean’s head to press their lips together. Dean’s lips clamp together automatically, even as his cock become painfully hard in his jeans. Sam’s unclothed except for a pair of loose cotton boxers and he tackles Dean to the floor, long legs straddling his brother and shoving his emptiness into Dean’s fullness, grinding against Dean’s cock like he’d been grinding against the mattress only seconds earlier. Sam’s lips and tongue insistently probe at Dean’s barred mouth, his stubble chafing at Dean’s face and his hair falling in Dean’s eyes, blocking Dean’s vision. Dean doesn’t struggle, but he doesn’t respond either. He’s still in shock at what Sam is doing. He’s still at war, with both himself and that ugly little voice shrieking triumphantly in the back of his mind. He’s repulsed, disgusted, and he wants it. Oh god help him, he wants this so badly.

 ** _Beloved,_** the Blade sings to him through the burning Mark. _**Our Beloved.**_

Sam pulls his mouth off of Dean’s and sits up, still grinding desperately against his brother, groaning with frustrated desire. Dean can make out words in the deep keening, words like _oh_ and _please_ and _Dean._ He doesn’t want to look anywhere but Sam’s face, sweating, eyes squinted and lips twisted, but his eyes travel of his own accord to look where he doesn’t want to- _Look at what you did!_

He does. Down Sam’s torso to the grey boxers, hiked up around his hips as Sam pounds against him, and the flat space in the front where Sam should have been full and straining if not for Dean-

_Look at what you did._

He looks, stares.

**_Ours!_ **

He’s so close to giving in, but then Sam grabs his right arm, his Marked arm, and presses the hand to the mutilation Dean gave him. That horrible wrongness that Sam’s frantically trying to get off against his big brother. Touching it sends a jolt through Dean like electricity, and it breaks the spell.

“Sam! Sam, no.”

Sam stops, a rumble of protest welling up from his chest that drowns out the cries of angry disbelief coming from the Blade until Dean can’t hear it anymore. The Mark cools as Dean tears his eyes and hand away from what he’s done, looks back to Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes have opened fully and he regards Dean questioningly.

“But it’s not real, you’re not real,” Sam pants, hands balling into fists. “I’m dreaming. It doesn’t matter, and I need it. Please, please-”

“It is real,” Dean tells him, wrestling with his overpowering desire to give Sam what he needs, whatever he needs. Anything, he’d promised himself. Anything-

But this is wrong. Dean knows this is wrong. It has to be, because of how much he wants it.

“This is real, Sam.”

He’s expecting Sam to recoil at the revelation, to leap off and run into the bathroom to puke or something, but Sam surprises him.

“Alright, so- so it’s real. It’s real, you’re real and- and I need it, Dean. Please.”

Dean’s cock throbs and he can tell that Sam feels it. A twisted smile creeps its way onto his little brother’s face and he rubs himself invitingly against Dean.

“Looks like you need it, too. Please, let me- I know you’ve wanted this. I’ve seen it, tried to pretend I didn’t, but- and I heard you in the bathroom. I know.”

“Sam, no. We can’t. I can’t do this- I ain’t gonna take advantage of you like this.”

“You’re not- I want this!” Sam screams at him, frightening in his rage. “I’m saying _yes!_ My whole goddamn life people have been taking things against my will, but right now I’m saying yes!”

“And I’m sayin’ no.”

Dean’s not a monster. He’s not a monster.

_Just keep tellin’ yourself that, champ._

Sam laughs bitterly, rolling off Dean and coming to rest on his back beside the older Winchester. The brothers lie side by side, close without touching, breathing heavily as they struggle to quell their lust and process what just happened. What didn’t happen. Sam speaks first, voice flat and even.

“Y’know what your problem is, Dean? It’s not what you think it is. You think it’s you, just fundamentally who you are, and you apologize for the things you have no control over but think yourself blameless for the mistakes you actually make.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This, what you did to me,” Sam gestures at his crotch and Dean flinches, “I don’t blame you for this, not really. That was the Mark. But why’d you take the fucking thing in the first place?”

“To- to stop Abaddon.”

“Without talking to anyone? Not to me, not to Cas. You trusted Cain and _Crowley_ over us. Over me.”

“‘Cause you were pissed at me-”

“I needed some time to think. I’d just kicked Gadreel out of my head. Where you helped him get inside. Which you never apologized for, by the way.”

Silence lingers after that, the invitation for restitution hanging tangibly between them. Dean should take it, wants to take it, but he knows that he’s _not_ sorry. He should be sorry- he’s a horrible person, the lowest of hypocrites, for not being sorry, but he’s just not. There was no choice, he had to save Sam no matter what, because- because- just _‘cause._

He thinks of John’s words. Save Sam or kill him. But there hadn’t been a choice there, either, and his father had known it. There was never a doubt that he would save Sam, because he would never have killed him. He’d threatened Sam with it, sure, and his chest burns with shame at the memory, but he’d never have gone through with it. No matter who suffers, even if it's Sam himself, he'll live. Dean will make sure that he lives.

Shit, Sam’s right. Of course Sam’s right, and there’s fuck-all Dean can do about it.

_You could change. You could try to change._

Yeah, right. Dean Winchester? Change? In what universe does that happen without Dean digging in his heels, kicking and screaming all the way?

_You could try for Sam._

Dean exhales slowly.

“I- I’m sorry, Sam,” he lies.

“Hmm,” Sam grunts noncommittally.

 _Smart kid,_ Dean thinks grudgingly.

Another stretch of silence passes.

“Thank you,” Sam says quietly.

“Don’t.”

Dean isn’t sure what Sam’s thanking him for. For not getting him off, not dragging him into his pit of incestuous self-loathing? For Dean’s half-assed attempt at an apology? Both? No matter what it is, Dean knows he doesn’t deserve it. Sam doesn’t pursue it.

“Gonna take a shower.”  
  
The younger Winchester gets up, pulling down on his boxers to straighten them, and Dean doesn’t mean to look, truly he doesn’t, but he does anyway. Sam catches him at it.

“Yeah, pretty grim, huh?”

Sam’s voice has a false humor to it that makes Dean’s skin crawl.

“God, Sam, I’m sorr-”

“No,” Sam’s anger is back. “What did we just talk about? I don’t want your apologies. Not for this.”

Dean sits up, looking up at his brother. Sam is shaking.

“What- what do you think about me, Dean? What am I to you?”

“You’re my brother.”

Dean answers slowly, trying to find the trap he’s sure he’s walking into but plowing on regardless. Sam shakes his head, giving that same bitter laugh.

“I don’t believe that,” he says cryptically, anger hardening his face.

“I don’t know what- I don’t understand- ” Dean begins, but Sam’s already heading for the bathroom. Dean stares at the closed door, heart sinking as he realizes he’s managed to fuck everything up yet again.

*

They track the shapeshifter down the next morning but it gets away. It’s Dean’s fault, he knows. He didn’t get any sleep and let it get the drop on him outside. He should have been there with Sam, his brother hasn’t been on a hunt since-

But he doesn’t kill the shifter, it almost kills Sam, and then it gets away. Worst of all is Sam’s reaction. He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d fucked everything up until Sam throws himself physically away from Dean’s touch. Dean steels himself against the hurt and they go back to the motel. Sam paces inside like a caged tiger, looking over his notes and avoiding eye contact with Dean.

They find the shifter later that afternoon. Dean barely registers putting a silver bullet in its brain, is only half aware of burning the corpse with Sam, before they’re checking out of the motel and back on the highway heading for Lebanon and the Bunker. Neither brother speaks for the entire trip.

They don’t go to Carhenge.

*

Their latest family crisis is put on hold when they enter the Bunker to find Crowley sitting in the war room.

The displaced King of Hell looks a little worse for wear since they saw him last outside of Magnus’ fortress. His clothes are shabbier, the thinning hair of his meatsuit unkempt. Dean’s first thought, after the unpleasant surprise fades, is that Crowley’s back on human blood. His next thought is to rush into the bathroom, grab the First Blade, and end the fucker for good right here and now. It scares him how good the idea feels, and only the thought of what he- _it-_ will do to Sam after it’s finished with Crowley locks his feet in place. His hand curls around Ruby’s knife and he glowers at the demon. Crowley regards both brothers with a placid veneer, but Dean can sense the wariness rippling behind the smooth surface of Crowley’s aura.

“Squirrel,” he drawls in his Scottish timbre, nodding first at Dean, then Sam. “And Moose.”

“So not in the mood for your crap- ” Dean growls, but Crowley cuts him off with a wave of his hand. A sadistic sneer curls on his lips as he looks at Sam.

“Although, I wonder if that nickname’s really appropriate now. Not quite the bull moose anymore, are you Sam? Heard you got the full ‘Theon Greyjoy’ from your brother.”

Rage pounds in Dean’s head, whiting out his vision when Crowley licks his lips while staring at the front of Sam’s jeans. He hears Sam yelling his name as he surges forward with a snarl, slashing Ruby’s knife at empty air. He topples face first into the suddenly vacant chair. Crowley chuckles from behind him.

“Angry little fellow, isn’t he?”

“How’d you get in here, Crowley?” Sam asks tiredly as Dean struggles to right himself.

“Hey, you can’t keep me away,” Crowley feigns offense. “I used to live here, remember? I figured out how to slip in between your warding.”

“We’ll fix that,” Sam promises darkly, putting a hand on Dean’s chest to block him from trying to get at Crowley again. The small buzz of elation Dean feels- _because Sam is touching him-_ halts his warpath in its tracks.

“Yes,” Crowley agrees. “You two are good at _fixing_ things.”

“What do you want?” Sam asks the demon in that same haggard tone.

“He wants my fuckin’ Blade!”

Dean doesn’t realize he’s used the possessive adjective until he feels Sam’s hand contract on his chest.

“Someone owes a quid to the swear jar,” Crowley deadpans. “And, no, you’re wrong. I don’t want that thing anywhere near me. It didn’t like me, and the feeling is more than mutual. I merely stopped by to drop off a present for you boys.”

“We don’t want anything from you,” Dean says vehemently.

“I assure you, you’ll want this. So, now you owe me. Once again. Yadda yadda yadda.”

Crowley smirks at Dean, winks at Sam, and disappears with a snap of his fingers. Appearing in his place is a familiar figure. Dean’s anger at Crowley- his silent vows to make the demon’s death as painful as he possibly can- stifles as recognition hits him. Crowley’s “gift” wears shredded clothing and his ratty trench coat is covered in blood. He sways where he stands, weary blue eyes looking haltingly up at the brothers.

“Hello, Dean. Sam.”

Castiel greets them each in turn, voice cracking, before he collapses into the taller Winchester’s arms.


End file.
